Marina Tsvetaeva
Through all the tedious tasks of the day...

Through all the tedious tasks of the day,
During all your arduous convulsions upon her,
You must let fall a few amiable trochees
Of mine, of me, your manly mistress.

Of my sternness’ bitter edge,
Of my slight shyness’ latent heat,
And of my telegraphic stroke,
Whose name is still — distance.

Same unearthed junk, except: give me and mine,
Same jealousies, except these, the mundane,
Same verities,— except that in extremis
You are still --- a Doubting Thomas.

My dear boy! I swear on the grey hair of your predecessors:
I’m a refugee, no one to take under your own roof!
So, long may the left-breasted Amazon’s hammerings
Fall upon your most simplistic ends!

Perhaps, amid her twittering and small exchanges
In the eternal strictures of her femininities —
You will call to mind my hand with no rights
Still in its manly sleeve.

My mouth, which seeks no financial gain,
Nor any claim, that might follow later,
My eyes, that manage without lids, without blinking,
To examine still: the light, of this world.

Translated by Mary Jane White