Cat
A long time ago, not so long ago, when I was a cat in a family, I had blood in my veins, the same as human blood, but animal blood (what color was it, what taste?). People didn’t like to talk about this topic, they were scared, and the owner would fall to the ground from the sight of bleeding. And the boy, her son, often broke his elbows and knees in the street, which was why his mother was so worried (this wise woman liked to keep quiet and seemed to teach her son and everyone around her to do the same—so her worry was silent, even a little quietly cruel). The son did not know about the panic and fear of blood. My son did not know that it was possible to be afraid of blood.
The neighbors often called my hosts Jews, even though all three of them—the host, the hostess, and the boy—had good German skills and spoke without an accent at all. I also spoke unaccented pure German, but who cares? People don’t talk about cats much at all. More often, people talk about some rumors or stupid politics. Sometimes they also talk about their lives, their families. Sometimes my owners talked about God. Sometimes about the Bible. I often asked my hostess whether she would burn her foreign gospel, her foreign language gospel, or not, I think it was some kind of Tanakh, in short, that book, if she found herself in a snowy desert to keep warm? And then the hostess looked at me, she looked down at me in a way that is indescribable, listened to me like that, and then gave me fresh fish. It was as if she hadn’t heard my German at all.
And one day I was in a photo. Look, that’s me. That’s me too. And this is a person. Can a cat also become a person? Can a cat also be German or Jewish? Can it have a human name, not my stupid Sulamif? I made up my own name, Sulamif, in honor of the distant lands in my masters’ books. I have no idea what a sulamif is. Probably something to do with myths.
And these are photos of the books. More precisely, my host in front of a bookshelf. And this is a photo of a local official who often visited our house.
And this is me again. This is not me. Or maybe it is me, just in one of the other nine lives.
And this photo is the landscape of our city from the veranda of an abandoned house. Here, in the left corner, is an old church. Behind it is a school. Initially, children were taught German and Romanian, and later Hebrew (this school was special). Here, here – in this photo the school is destroyed. All three languages are destroyed. And the church, although no-the church was destroyed later in another country. Others destroyed the church. They destroyed the church. They also destroyed the synagogue. They left no stone unturned. They did not even leave a place for rats to hide. The iron that was supposed to go into space fell to the ground and hurt the earth. And not only her.
And then the elder Celans were gone, the kid disappeared somewhere… The darkened world disappeared somewhere.
Or maybe I never existed? Maybe I was just dreaming? Or maybe it will still be possible for a cat to live normally without owners, to be a living cat with dead owners, to communicate without tears. The first letter I will remove will be A.
Wht if I never existed?
Тhen I’ll remove the letters E аnd I.
Wht f I nvr xstd?
And then L, F, S.
Wht nvr xtd?
And then W, H, T, N, V, R, X, T, D.
All that’s left is a
question mark
?
Poems
no one wakes up
every night
in the cemetery
the tree dies without burial
and without ceremony
even without a coffin made
of human flesh
no one drinks air and
no one crowds around the pit
no one is even in a hurry
only the sky is drowning in the sunset
of the future
the tree dies
Promotion. Minced meat at the city cannibal market. Ants learn to read soles. The ruins sing with rain. The werewolves turn around at the traffic light. The roads are overgrown with ivy. Vampires drink water from the blood of the dead. The tears of the dead go to the mermaids. Only dogs are still faithful. Hot dog on sale.
the ambivalence of a torn-out heart
the bird seeks hope for wings
sugar house hunger
sweetened leaf crunch
crucifix without taste and smell
human chicken skewers
The tongue was bitten by a stapler
The nail was driven into the body
The office of subjects
A butterfly made of pieces of metal
The child fell asleep under the roar of explosions
A child has dreams
people from the past
burned at the stake
of autumn memories
Mykyta Ryzhykh is the winner of the international competition Art Against Drugs and Ukrainian contests Vytoky, Shoduarivska Altanka, Khortytsky dzvony, laureate of the literary competition named after Tyutyunnik, Lyceum, Twelve, named after Dragomoshchenko. Nominated for Pushcart Prize. Ryzhykh’s work has been published in the journals Dzvin, Dnipro, Bukovinian magazine, Polutona, Rechport, Topos, Articulation, Formaslov, Literature Factory, Literary Chernihiv, Tipton Poetry Journal, Stone Poetry Journal, Divot journal, dyst journal, Superpresent Magazine, Allegro Poetry Magazine, Alternate Route, Better Than Starbucks Poetry & Fiction Journal, Littoral Press, Book of Matches, and the portals Litсenter and Ice Floe Press.
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