Three Poems by Anna Piwkowska

Iphigenia’s morning Who recognized these crossroads, these poisonous bogs, false lights of will-o’-the-wisps on succulent marshes? Where are you today and what are you brewing in your copper cauldrons—what new, sudden vision of terrible fate led you to fulfill a familiar prophecy, to spool the skeins of wool? As usual, you are traveling. I am […]

The Rifle / Tüfek

On the wall hung a rifle. A brown rifle. Who knew how many years it had been there. From time to time, my father took it from between the deer, who seemed spooked, and cleaned it, blowing away the dust. He gazed at it, maybe daydreaming, maybe remembering old times, before getting up and hanging […]

The Funeral Pyre / Le Bûcher

(September 1884) Last Monday, in Etretat, Bapu Sahib Khanderao Ghatgay died. He was an Indian prince, a relative of His Highness, the Maharaja Gaikwar, Prince of Baroda in the province of Gujarath,in the Bombay Presidency. For about three weeks, we saw about a dozen young Indians passing through the streets: small, supple, with very dark […]