A poem by Hanna Komar, read by the poet.
Hanna Komar is an award-winning poet and translator based in Minsk, Belarus. She has published two poetry collections (Fear of Heights in Belarusian and a bilingual collection Recycled). Hanna writes in Belarusian and translates her texts into English.
Amira
I cried every second day
then every day, my skin burning
when the eggs spit on the pan
when the boiling hot tea spilled over my hands
when your mother didn’t believe my single word.
You cried only once
when I happened to sit on your glasses
you laughed with me
only twice
I don’t remember why
suddenly, there was such light
as if I was given a sun
only for me.
I cried every third night
after those three minutes with the lights off
when you allowed me to wear no clothes
which hid the wrinkles of my belly
a baby could smooth them out
but I had ten more kilos to lose
till your consent.
My soul wailed like a street trader at the central market
of Casablanca that your goods were the best.
I didn’t believe her but got them time after time.
