The Whirlpool

Water poured among uneaten islets,
down the alleys, down from the roofs.
At dinnertime, the sour smell of sticky buds
burst out of the park.
Wistful birds whistled on the windowsill
making kids laugh,
and teaspoons jingled,
and the wooden fence creaked.
The vapor wreathed up and, in the tousled air,
reaching another state of matter,
it gathered water into pellets again
and wept them down like tears of repentance.

By Kristina Kryukova

Translated by Sergey Gerasimov from Russian.

Biography:

Kristina Kryukova is an author from Russia. She lives in Moscow. Her most recent poems have appeared Salmon Creek Journal, Poets Choice. She graduated from the Moscow University of Culture and Arts. Winner of several national and international poetry awards, mother of two kids