Marina Tsvetaeva
Girlfriend. 2. I wake in the plush caress of your blankets...

I wake in the plush caress of your blankets,
into something I dreamed yesterday—
Which was? Whose the conquest?
Which one of us won,
which one was won?

As I think it over, I think perhaps
I should think the better of all of this.
Sudden as a pang, it all comes back.
Why don’t I even have a name for this feeling?
Does that mean it’s love?

Which one of us was the trapper,
who was the prize, the prey?
Everything’s looking-glass backwards,
impossible to read,
much less say.

Which one of us was sure, as a man is sure,
that she understood,
slowly purring with satisfaction
like a Siberian tomcat?

Who won that championship game of wills?
When the whistle ended the match,
was anyone even holding the ball?
Was it your heart or mine
that beat fast as the wings
of a terrified bird,
and hard as the hooves
of a galloping horse?

What really happened? I still don’t understand
Do I burn with longing or shame?
Who took, who was taken, did anyone
have the last word?

Translated by Seraphina Powell