\u00a0 translated by Alan Zhukovski<\/strong> Alan Zhukovski\u00a0is a poet and translator. His work\u00a0has appeared or is forthcoming in the\u00a0New Statesman, Ambit, The London Magazine, The Threepenny Review, Agenda,\u00a0Tin House, Oxford Poetry,\u00a0Acumen,\u00a0Plume, Gulf Coast, Asymptote,\u00a0Orbis,\u00a0Blackbird,\u00a0The Fortnightly Review<\/em>, and elsewhere.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n (from \u201cSelf-Murderers\u201d<\/em>)<\/p>\n look here\u2014you hang or like an electric bulb or in other words such a disgusting view and finally some plant breeder translated by Alan Zhukovski<\/strong> Alan Zhukovski\u00a0is a poet and translator. His work\u00a0has appeared or is forthcoming in the\u00a0New Statesman, Ambit, The London Magazine, The Threepenny Review, Agenda,\u00a0Tin House, Oxford Poetry,\u00a0Acumen,\u00a0Plume, Gulf Coast, Asymptote,\u00a0Orbis,\u00a0Blackbird,\u00a0The Fortnightly Review<\/em>, and elsewhere.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The\u00a0Man Who Drowned Himself \u00a0 (from \u201cSelf-Murderers\u201d) \u00a0 when you looked back your footprints were floating on the waves like dead fishes \u00a0 the road was too long slowly you started to sink into the water like a knife into butter \u00a0 and parallel to you the lead ingots of your footprints descended to the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":295,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[371,372],"tags":[375],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n
\n(from \u201cSelf-Murderers\u201d<\/em>)
\n\u00a0
\nwhen you looked back
\nyour footprints
\nwere floating on the waves
\nlike dead fishes
\n\u00a0
\nthe road was too long
\nslowly
\nyou started to sink
\ninto the water
\nlike a knife into butter
\n\u00a0
\nand parallel to you
\nthe lead ingots
\nof your footprints
\ndescended to the bottom
\n\u00a0
\nonly a sodden cherry cross
\nspread its clumsy arms
\non the thin water membrane
\nstuck to the surface
\nand for some reason
\nreminded you of a mast
\non a sunken ship<\/p>\n
\nwritten by Serhiy Zhadan<\/strong><\/p>\nTHE MAN WHO HANGED HIMSELF<\/h5>\n
\nlike some tropical fruit
\nthat has already gone
\nslightly rotten<\/p>\n
\nwith a small fly of fright
\nthrashing about
\nin the bulb\u2019s viscera
\namong the hushing
\nmolecules<\/p>\n
\nyou wriggle like a worm
\non the hook
\nof your own demise
\nyou\u2019re a shiny earring
\nworn by your death<\/p>\n
\nthe ten-story
\nbuilding of your body
\nhas sagged and shrunk
\nand looks pinched
\nonly the nails
\non your fingers and toes
\ncontinue to grow
\nslowly<\/p>\n
\nwill break you in two
\nlike an apple
\nhe\u2019ll see your lungs
\npregnant with the last air<\/p>\n
\nwritten by Serhiy Zhadan<\/strong><\/p>\n