by Elmira Oktayevna Elvazova
Sunset, the light
stirs its colors.
A flush of cheeks.
From the kitchen,
you hear the clatter of dishes.
Spoons circle the sky.
At the bottom of the pot,
you scrap out the last serving.
It is your intention to lap it up. Every morsel.
This mercury. This feldspar stuff in the trees.
Someone is clearing the table.
The pots and pans are being rinsed, placed upside down in their places.
Outside your window,
The rain comes which you have always called the rain.
The earth washes itself clean.
You don’t know what else to call it.
All day you have tried to fill the space of a void.
How many lamp lights are coming on?
Out there and
Between the steps from your house to mine.