You sit, pale, pregnant.
How you have changed, poor girl.
Weeping, weeping you sit
And straighten out your dress.
Why do women only pamper us
And as they fall offer us their lips
And run out beyond the barrier
And drop behind the carriages?
How you ran after them,
Looked into the windows streaking by…
The mail trains, the express trains pound,
And from Moscow to Ashkhabad
Dumbly along the line
The women stand as still as stone
Holding their bellies up to the moon –
And as they turn towards the light
In the unpeopled territory of night
How well the planet understands them
With its own gigantic belly.
Notes on this poem
© Zoya Boguslavskaya.