Inna pilipenko
Birth: 1991
Agency: Supreme, Women
Nationality: Russian

Height 5' 10.5" - 179
Bust 30" - 76
Waist 23" - 58
Hips 34" - 86

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 Six years of such small preoccupations!
Six years of shuttling in and out of this place!
O my hunger! My hunger!
I could have gone around the world twice
or had new children -- all boys.
It was a long trip with little days in it
and no new places.

In here,
it's the same old crowd,
the same ruined scene.
The alcoholic arrives with his golf clubs.
The suicide arrives with extra pills sewn 
into the lining of her dress.
The permanent guests have done nothing new.
Their faces are still small
like babies with jaundice.

------

Once, 
outside your office,
I collapsed in the old fashioned swoon
between the illegally parked cars.
I threw myself down,
pretending dead for eight hours.
I thought I had died
into a snowstorm.
Above my head
chains cracked along like teeth
digging their way through the snowy street.
I lay there 
like an overcoat
that someone had thrown away.
You carried me back in,
awkwardly, tenderly,
with the help of the red-haired secretary
who was built like a lifeguard.
My shoes, 
I remember,
were lost in the snowbank
as if I planned never to walk again.

That was the winter
that my mother died, 
half mad on morphine,
blown up, at last,
like a pregnant pig.
I was her dreamy evil eye.
In fact,
I carried a knife in my pocketbook --
My husband's good L.L. Bean hunting knife.
I wasn't sure if I should slash a tire
or scrape the guts out of some dream.

-----

Was it last month or last year
that the ambulance ran like a hearse
with its siren blowing on suicide -- 
Dinn, dinn, dinn! ---
a noon whistle that kept insisting on life
all the way through the traffic lights

-----

This is madness
but a kind of hunger.
What good are my questions
in this hierarchy of death
where the earth and the stones go
Dinn! Dinn! Dinn!
It is hardly a feast.
It is my stomach that makes me suffer.

Turn, my hunger!
For once make a deliberate decision.
There are brains that rot here
like black bananas.
Hearts have grown as flat as dinner plates.

----

Those I loved best died of it --
the fool's disease.

 Snow,
blessed snow,
comes out of the sky
like bleached flies.
The ground is no longer naked.
The ground has on its clothes.
The trees poke out of sheets
and each branch wears the sock of God.

There is hope. 
There is hope everywhere.
I bite it.
Someone once said:
Don't bite till you know 
if it's bread or stone.
What I bite is all bread,
rising, yeasty as a cloud.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
Today God gives milk
and I have the pail

 Maybe I'm dead now
and have found Him.
Maybe my evil body is done with.
For I look up,
and in a blaze of butter is
Christ, 
soiled with my sour tears,
Christ,
a lamb that has been slain,
his guts drooping like a sea worm,
but who lives on, lives on
like the wings of an Atlantic seagull.
Though he has stopped flying,
the wings go on flapping
despite it all,
despite it all.