(Translated by Stanislaw Baranczk and Clare Cavanagh)
Little girls—
skinny, resigned
to freckles that won’t go away,
not turning any heads
as they walk across the eyelids of the world,
looking just like Mom or Dad,
and sincerely horrified by it—
in the middle of dinner,
in the middle of a book,
while studying the mirror,
may suddenly be taken off to Troy.
In the grand boudoir of a wink
they all turn into beautiful Helens.
They ascend the royal staircase
in the rustling of silk and admiration.
They feel light. They all know
that beauty equals rest,
that lips mold the speech’s meaning,
and gestures sculpt themselves
in inspired nonchalance.
Their small faces
worth dismissing envoys for
extend proudly on necks
that merit countless sieges.
Those tall, dark movie stars,
their girlfriends’ older brothers,
the teacher from art class,
alas, they must all be slain.
Little girls
observe disaster
from a tower of smiles.
Little girls
wring their hands
in intoxicating mock despair.
Little girls
against a backdrop of destruction,
with flaming towns for tiaras,
in earrings of pandemic lamentation.
Pale and tearless.
Triumphant. Sated with the view.
Dreading only the inevitable
moment of return.
Little girls
returning.
