Poetry by Yulia Aleynikova

by Yulia Aleynikova

Apparitions of An Absolute Must Watch

I’m not the one for wanting
a TV in my living room,
suggesting series to others
devoured at the end of the day.
The end of the day will be what
the end of the day will be.
A glass of wine.
Day-old eclairs.
A book. Things you do
instead of taking an online course
on the Ghosts of Saint-Petersburg, or
perhaps, what you do after I wonder –
where was my attention?
Where was my attention
when my attention was,
like a dog on its back
with its paws up,
belly to be scratched.
Rub shadows. Rub.

***

Contemplative Objects of October Evening Visit to the Guggenheim Rotunda

The Minimalism art strikes me as too
naughty for my mood, except for the installation
of twelve canvases by Agnes Martin, The Islands,
depicting white bands on the white,
described as hard to distinguish one from another
to a point of silence.
This year, I gave up on my family’s destructive habits,
I bought bras second-hand, dug a hole in my jogging pants
with my nail, didn’t fold or spell omelettes properly
on purpose and a tree fell on the front of my car.
Yesterday, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning
over and over. I’ll get it right.
I let a man live in denial of what is or isn’t possible.
It was a surprise for me to realize that I don’t analyze
the reason behind my choices.
Am I being pretentious but do you ever kill somebody
by staring?