Dmitry Blizniuk
The Epoch of Miracles
The girl made of sparkling braces,
golden braids, and plush reveries,
do you remember our living caves constructed of blankets
and a warm plasticine darkness that greedily breathed inside?
Or our huts of branches under the moiré canopy of apricot trees?
Do you remember the primeval infatuation of the cave dwellers?
An apple, sandwiches, an absurd doll, a water pistol…
Like a home task given by God,
if stranded on another planet,
we could’ve reproduced the whole mankind,
waking up each morning under the light blue sky.
A busty progenitress resembling a pompous vegetable-seller
was hidden deep in your body.
There was a hunter and a warrior in me –
a hardened ape, covered with scars.
The epoch of miracles blazed up like spilled gunpowder,
but it didn’t bring about a supernova explosion.
The scarlet flower has built up silly muscles.
The time of miracles has annihilated itself,
as if Bonnie and Clyde started shooting in Disneyland.
Ripping off the floor boards in the old house,
where decrepit ballet dancers of desolation
stroll the uninhabited rooms,
I see underneath a small cat’s skeleton.
The cat’s name was Yasia. What was your name?
About the writer:
Dmitry Blizniuk is an author from Ukraine. His most recent poems have appeared in The Pinch, Press53, The Nassau Review, Havik, Naugatuck River Review, and many others. A Pushcart Prize nominee, he is also the author of The Red Fоrest (Fowlpox Press, 2018). He lives in Kharkov, Ukraine.
Image: Orchard 3 by Hadar Gad (1960-). Oil on canvas. 136 x 210 cm. 2012. By free license.
