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Maria Matios
to the authorities this
though minor, really strictly
prohibited, violation.
…Mykhailo sits on the dam
here and thinks that, in fact,
he had lied to Lieutenant
Lupul when he said he didn’t
have any interest in the
formerly Polish, and just
recently, Soviet riverbank.
To tell the entire truth, he
had no active interest, but
Mykhailo does have eyes, and
his eyes, thank God, for the
time being are good, and he
sees everything. He sees that
from this last fall that side
grewso quiet, as though there
were daily funeral repasts for
the recently departed. Or, it
was as though people there
suddenly gorged themselves
on poppy stalks and fell
into a sleep for a long time,
like the forest uncle bears.
Something’s not right there…
oy, not right, different from
what it used to be before.
Say what you will, under
Poland it was different. It
used to happen that human
shouting, shameless girls’
squeaks or satisfied young
guys’ whistles echoed from
the cliff on that side to
the one on this side, and
especially on the days of
church holidays or village
triumphs. And the daytime
or evening echo doubled the
mixed voices, and they stood
like a solitary pure bell, in
the valley cut by the water
between the mountains. And
whoever didn’t know would
not have said or even thought
that the river, sinuous like a
reptile, and green like feather
grass, artificially marked with
striped poles, makes that bell
crack in half.
One day last winter when that
side was still under the Poles,
Mykhailo and Matronka