own little world

he spat the phrase…in your own
little world …out at me… little
does he know

my world …a sentient
forest…after the snow
has fallen…each step a sharp
crunch…each breath
a stirring

words lace the branches
in pastels…sparks of scarlet… waltz
above my head…from time
to time… land on my lap
I carry them in my skirt
tentatively…baring
the soft of my thighs

winds chime
with me…a sirocco
in restlessness …an icy gale
in despair…a wet monsoon
in dreaming…a zephyr
at ever elusive ease

in my own world… little
by little
I took the last of his
stuff out …changed the locks

**

how long

I could tell you
how the snow glistened in the midday sun
…………………………………………………………..like razor blades

how we shivered
every time the bus stopped and opened its doors
…………………………………………………………..glazed with frost

how I thawed my feet
on the radiator reclaiming my toes in a momentarily
……………………………………………………….excruciating victory

how on sports days
at school we had to bring skis as well as bags
………………………………………………………………..of textbooks

how every family
with children owned a sled and some days we all
……………………………………………………….looked like Rudolph

how snowflakes
floated above us their perfect shapes melting
………………………………………………………..on our eye-lashes

how he kissed
me in the wind like there was no tomorrow
………………………………………………………………..of cracked lips

how far
winters stretched from October well into April
……………………………………………………………………..most years

how odd
these parching southern summers have been
…………………………………………………………………………how long

**

Water Off a Goose

Как с гуся вода,
так с тебя худоба.

Like water off a goose,
so is your malady.

From my crown
down my spine
the warm water ran
like honey off my grandmother’s hands.

I think of the time when
the only thing
in my grandmother’s life
was hunger.
To this day
she doesn’t throw
out a crumb.

Как с гуся вода

The old pagan wisdom
sank into my skin
from the lizard brain
to my toes.

Like water off a goose,

so are the lies:
‘the lazy leaners’,
thin as the paper
they’re written on,

sharp as a blade
that cuts us
off from each other.

Как с гуся вода,

so are the years,
heavy as the fog,
I muddle through

goslings in tow,
over-scrutinised
and under-valued.

Like water off a goose,

so will my marginal
unwanted-ness
run down

deep down
to my foremothers’
bones, fortify
my ground.

Как с гуся вода…

Drop by drop
our blood will gather,
and all that has been
a long time coming
will pour over their crowns
and stick to them
like honey.

**

Irina Frolova is a Russian-born Australian poet who lives on Awabakal land. She has a degree in philology from Moscow City Pedagogical University and is currently studying psychology at Deakin University. Her work has appeared in Not Very Quiet, Australian Poetry Collaboration, and Baby Teeth Journal, as well as several Newcastle Poetry at the Pub anthologies. She is working on a bilingual pocketbook of poems to be published by Flying Island Books/ASM/Cerberus Press later in 2020.

Reading the River virtual reading April 2020: Irina Frolova

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