Tenement Poem by Justyna Bargielska

I'm annoyed by the windows in the house on the opposite shore
of the foaming street below. For hours on end I peek
into what's cooking at my neighbours', as they boil the tiny hearts
of sparrows - that's what dad called chitterlings when we were kids,
in other words when cats vanished and returned
with the next phase of the moon, ears torn. Not to me
anymore now - the windows on the ground floor
what a bordello, fliers of women in the letterbox, as grown up as I
could never be, even if I went on my knees
over broken glass from kitchen to bedroom room.
Upstairs a man with a dog's muzzle, or maybe
a dog with a human face, I never know, lowers down
a glass eye on his fishing rod and peeps at the women below.
I'm annoyed by their windows. They've gone over the top
with this life, as though they didn't know, you don't need to at all.

Translation: Maria Jastrzębska