Marina Tsvetaeva
An attempt at jealousy

How is your life with the other one,
simpler, isn’t it? One stroke of the oar
then a long coastline, and soon
even the memory of me

will be a floating island
(in the sky, not on the waters):
spirits, spirits, you will be
sisters, and never lovers.

How is your life with an ordinary
woman? without godhead?
Now that your sovereign has
been deposed (and you have stepped down).

How is your life? Are you fussing?
flinching? How do you get up?
The tax of deathless vulgarity
can you cope with it, poor man?

‘Scenes and hysterics I’ve had
enough! I’ll rent my own house.’
How is your life with the other one
now, you that I chose for my own?

More to your taste, more delicious
is it, your food? Don’t moan if you sicken.
How is your life with an image
you, who walked on Sinai?

How is your life with a stranger
from this world? Can you (be frank)
love her? Or do you feel shame
like Zeus’ reins on your forehead?

How is your life? Are you
healthy? How do you sing?
How do you deal with the pain
of an undying conscience, poor man?

How is your life with a piece of market
stuff, at a steep price?
After Carrara marble,
how is your life with the dust of

plaster now? (God was hewn from
stone, but he is smashed to bits.)
How do you live with one of a
thousand women after Lilith?

Sated with newness, are you?
Now you are grown cold to magic,
how is your life with an
earthly woman, without a sixth

sense? Tell me: are you happy?
Not? In a shallow pit how is
your life, my love? Is it as
hard as mine with another man?

Translated by Elaine Feinstein