I fucked up my knitting in the sauna.
The wool fraying with sweat, animal
tiring of infrared, birds zorbing like
orbs of candles, by me, showering in
the dark. Alright, and the dog rotates
in the air above my bed in my sleep
she knows this is a different day the
rest are like a slice of sun, rolls down
the back of my calf, a remnant of
being a child, scales of lore, how old.
Everyone puts their face on my face.
Friend. Those students finished that
huge lasagne, snacking right next to
me. I realized how gross it sounds
when people cut up and eat a lasagne.
Alex Braslavsky
Alex Braslavsky is a poet, translator, and scholar. She is currently completing her dissertation on Polish, Czech, and Russian nonagenarian women poets and studying the relationship between aging and artmaking. Her poems are forthcoming in Rhino and The Indianapolis Review, among other journals. Her volume of translations of Zuzanna Ginczanka’s poetry was short-listed for the American Literary Translators’ Association First Translation Prize.
