Anastasia Afanasieva
"You whose inner void. . ."
Your inner void is larger
than the hole in your pocket,
larger than a black hole —
you hang laundry in the yard
as in your heyday in the thirties
when the Earth burned under your feet.
You no longer remain,
nor breathe, nor look back.
You proceed without cease
onward toward bright victory —
the color of sickly blue flesh,
blood spilled by chance.
You who felt a void before
toss your hats, cry for joy.
Fire has replaced your void.
You believe this fire is yours —
this Olympic fire.
You lofted the Olympic torch,
brought it so close
the barren land caught fire
like fields of dry grain.
The barren earth turns what is sown.
Nature abhors a void. The torch still burns.
You only have to gaze so long on water and fire
to understand fire, too, rushes into a vacuum.
See how alien intent winds through your speech,
how foreign fire flows through you.
You say: It’s not foreign. I own my fire.
This is not anger, rather a kind of love.
See, how we love you — our engorged heart is slaked in blood.
We’ll save, we’ll kill you, in the name of love.
