Genya Turovskaya, p.2



59 seconds or 110 days

One can have pleasant dreams in the nude 300 miles
above Kazakhstan


At hand, my feeling now, till now, at this instant, in a few minutes

Handwriting did not change though the hand was weightless

I did not sit in the chair, as before, but was suspended in mid air
Arms and legs feel as previously, the same as during weightlessness, but now they have weight
I ceased to be suspended over the chair, but eased myself into it
I felt the whole of my life
Am I happy? Of course I am happy
A mighty spaceship will carry me into the far-away


No vacuum, no incoherent null, trusted null, the null itself

I am four years old

I was fourteen years old

I was watching I remember and I knew

upon reentry I would walk or crawl but I would not be borne aloft again
the shoulders of the crowd

O Kazakhstan!


Gravity is a heavy load The atmosphere abrades
The stars don’t twinkle here

No null, no time, no I


I did not know it but was told

No perfume is as sweet as the sweet air of Kazakhstan

To enable, to choose, to bring the station down
to the great square fields of the collective farms

The dividing line is very thin: a belt of film
delicate spheres

Gradual and lovely, it is difficult to put into words


When I emerged from the shadow of the dense stars I didn’t see the moon


Mir was just a page, a quick low pass
Seconds disappeared

Maybe we saw the space
the last time in the world, maybe
this is not true, God knows

debris breaks up and burns
Thoughts under control
tonight we begin the irreversible shift

renounce technical measures to fulfill
the final stage


This burn, this slow elliptical blast and hurl
into the waters
between fickle alignments
and impoverished industries

fall harmless, uselessly into the sea


Both peace and world
lost contact, suddenly lost
retain losses, pseudonyms
and fall


Disperse toward me

Things can see, hear

I can feel solid


To walk on sea legs but to walk on Kazakhstan