Triin Paja

in the river-house, a woman leans from a window
               to empty a bucket of laundry-water into the stream.


when the men’s tobacco and leather words
                     flutter in the kitchen, even moonlight

begins to rust.                there is shelter in the dusty jar of the garden:
                   I have filled the bathtub with soil. see the petunias
growing there.


you are what the sky didn’t break. your body is palimpsest, a wooden marionette.
                     to them, you are an abandoned piano on a shore. the sea
will utter what you no longer can.


in a world of gardens, even the sky could be another’s voice.

                       I will bring them apples. I will lay down where the curtains
never cease to move. I will not break the rock

of my solitude—


the sound of the sunset, the copper samovar—

I look into a window as if it was a door:
in which forgotten language was defenestration our nirvana?

Triin Paja is an Estonian, living in a small village in rural Estonia. Her poetry has appeared in The Moth, BOAAT, Otis Nebula, The Cossack Review, Gloom Cupboard, The Missing Slate, and elsewhere.