Potiphar’s Wife; In November. And the clouds will gather
By: Lina Buividavičiūtė
Translated from Lithuanian to English by Irma Šlekyte.
Potiphar’s Wife
After a time, his master’s wife looked at Joseph with longing and said, “Lie with me.” The Bible, the Book of Genesis
I cling onto Your robe, boldly tear the seams apart,
rip up my pride to pieces with my teeth,
though You arrived at our home a slave.
You said You’re acting in his name, the one who never abandons,
gives strength to resist the forbidden bodily orifices.
My desire entangles my veins, the thin blood
mixes with the thick, the red and the blue –
nothing matters any more, I rub away the imprint
of the ring. I’m a young gazelle, awaiting the nimblest
of the herd. I always get what I crave for, in this abode
with curtains of the most precious purple
even the flicker of the flame abides by me.
Never hide behind his name, the ninth commandment –
I’m just a wilting fussy mimosa, who’s never been
rejected before, not even out of fear. You played
the most sensitive strings without ever touching the zither of my body.
I cling onto Your robe, I’m a she-wolf in heat, I tear
apart my loneliness, my boredom, my slow decline, I bite
at Your righteous heart, I devour Your liver. We’ll rot
in the cells of our pride, our bones will never rest together.
Everything I betray to the crowd afterwards will be out of despair.
In November. And the clouds will gather
The world, deep in sleep, a window and an overcast
glance, there’s no one to wake me up, the darkness slowly
engulfs the light of day, it’s difficult to discern what
time it is, everything recedes somehow: the fog, the window pane,
I need stronger glasses, increasingly expressive rituals.
I don’t want to get up in the morning, I growl and build tents
from bedsheets like a child; it is but an echo, I can’t rekindle
the joyful game. The broth is tasteless, no one chases
the shadows out of the corners; now I think to myself
I’ve been living such a lukewarm life, it’s not even November yet.
The forest and the trees, the fading bedding, the winter berries
and birds still not yet red, I plod down the empty roadsides,
soaked in the freezing Autumn rain, the raindrops on my short eyelashes –––
I try to repeat, to answer aloud, I hoot my laughter
at the entrance of the hall of death, having to rebuild my vitality from ashes,
I need blood and milk, but my veins are barren.
I must lean my heavy head back, get drunk with dampness,
kiss the silent passer-by in the city, worship nudity, celebrate
All Saints, compose a litany on hunger,
survive this month.
Lina Buividavičiūtė was born on May 14, 1986. She is a poet and literary critic. Her poetry is published in “Matter”, “Masters”, “Proverse poetry prize” contests anthologies, “Beyond words”, “The limit experi-ence”, “Cathexis northwest press” magazines and Versopolis poetry platform. Upcoming publications will appear in “New millennium writings”, “Beyond words”, “Beyond queer words” and “Poetry online” magazines. This poem is translated from Lithuanian to English by Irma Šlekyte.