Petrichor & Under a sheepskin coat

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Anna Idelevich

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Petrichor

The earthy smell inherited by ancestors
from actinobacteria geosmin,
aerosol felt by my eggs,
is not indifferent to your artillery salt.
It is hypocritical to claim that our love is a series film,
a game of incredible scale of galactic empires,
perfumery shops with worn-out labels,
you know that neither hospitals with pills,
nor other rains with aerial reconnaissance, will be able to separate us.
You wake up at night with my poems as track and field athletes,
you dream of being absorbed by clay soil
your size, incomparable with simple cigarettes.
Your Arbat cannot trade in secrets,
unsuitable conditions,
imitative means do not suit you,
you want to pour your salts between my legs.
And you don’t need a philosophy about life, you need straps that slip, nipples that stick out, high-speed words that whisper in your ears, sweets like rich pancakes, and you’ve already eaten your fill of war and victory with statuses.
Who are you making laugh? You can’t live without my touches and kisses, I left, you burst into
tears,
said you were old, that it was late, you were tossing and turning in bed,
you wanted to draw Nazca geoglyphs on my body with markings.
UNESCO World Heritage, from all the lines, stripes hickeys
on the semi-desert climate,
received secretly and unseen by anyone text messages,
lift up my skirt, strangle my neck with stockings,
after all, you collect my words like dew with thin pipettes,
micro pipettes, in which liquid is collected like in glass tubes,
and you drink them to the end instead of water, after all, I drink your life like the Bible
under the drizzle of rain and coo in the morning, pulling on a dress with gray sequins.
And you can’t understand us with Greek mythologies,
understand with transparent branches of light in the forest.
Should I give you a napkin? Wipe me off and wash down the pill.

__________

Under a sheepskin coat

A carefree rider on horseback as a rider
spurred me on the beach, his wing is his hand,
the hot shit of the day cools down, the road is easy,
planned a white envelope, the crane became a seagull without a wing and tail.
Nudity under my sheepskin coat and soon darkness,
the inaction of sound heals, cuteness catches up with fate,
they can’t kill us all at once, does the wingedness of the cross burn in the stove?
The beach is covered with sand during the winter,
riders of the opposite sex exchange glances, licking their lips
wind-beaten by the petty whim of winter,
slander of the real world, and that is drunk away by the sunset,
among the changes of the surf, of their own accord, only in the haven of fantasy
you and I, yellowness and redness, the poverty of words from the mouth,
I kiss you without words, I undress you first, letting you go first,
we cannot keep up with the manes, we will not become these horses, the fringed edges of the
umbrellas will be torn by the winds,
not fastidiousness and laughter.
Congratulations on your victory, you, dominating in my world, grown by algae and destroyed by them.

__________

Anna Idelevich, Ph.D., MBA, previously worked as a Scientist at Harvard University and now teaches on Nantucket Island. Her poetry was featured in Ganga Review, New Contrast, Zoetic press, BlazeVOX, The Racket, Hawaii Pacific Review, Cholla Needles, Louisville Review, In Parenthesis, Red Ogre Review, Assignment, Grey Sparrow Journal, Salmon Creek and other magazines. We hope you will enjoy their melody, new linguistic tone, and a slight tint of an accent.

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