Public Republic

Aksinia Mihailova

Photo: jenny downing

In the morning, when I brush my hair looking in the mirror,
he is reading his newspaper,
Many days in a row I keep telling him
my incessantly recurring dreams
of the city of white walls and a dreadfully hollow frame,
of the city of Breton and immensely alluring lilies
of despair, of my thoughts
that loving someone and writing poetry
are incompatible
with someone’s reading the newspaper aloud,
perhaps I am not such an enchanting storyteller,
if from a sea of lonesome nights
every time an isle of salty rocks emerges.

Translated into Engish: Roumiana Tiholova