we are all the Khachaturian sisters

terrified little girls
they tell us: say hello,
it won’t hurt you,
put on a dress, sit up straight,
behave modestly,
act like a lady
rule number three hundred and eighty eight:
you are the mirror of your ancestors, the greatest shame of your people,
the dying tongue of those at the feast,
there on the beach, where women are always clothed
and men are exposed, indecent,
the enormous black waves wail,
a cry rips from the chest of a heavenly god
Allah rǝhmǝt elǝsin
kolay gelsin don’t hurt me

Mekhti earns 50 manats an hour,
gasps from asthma in a stifling car
20 days awaiting trial for prostitution
4 beds between 17
beatings without end and violent movements
your father — your sin, Mekhti, you are your father’s sin,
the rotting fruit of the Garden of Eden,
don’t, stop it, no, please don’t hurt me

Malika rejoices, dances, gathers
banknotes,
gulps down her tenth glass of wine,
it’s only proper for a sham wedding,
the last lifeboat in the immense ocean
a hole gapes in her chest and from the depths you can hear
Allah rǝhmǝt elǝsin
kolay gelsin and wailing don’t hurt me
for kids the most terrifying thing is a police sergeant
who paces the room in filthy shoes
a wasp stinger jutting from his back
a bloody mess everywhere, an axe,
a kitchen table overturned
a woman clasping her own knees
repeats without end don’t hurt me

I’ll take away your pain, your sorrow, bitter grief,
you can’t wash away the sea salt from your shoulders, Bakhar,
wounds stretch along an earthly path of loss
three ribs, a collar bone, a toe,
fragile, discovered anew,
please, God, don’t hurt me, I’m begging you,
the place where there’s always water: cold, cloudy, like rakı,
one heart was left and another buried
beneath the hands of a man,
who drank like the devil,
beneath a butcher's block chopped in two
beneath the sound of broken bones
Allah rǝhmǝt elǝsin
kolay gelsin and wailing don’t hurt me

come here and greet them all in turn:
grandmother, mother, sister,
friend, stranger, colleague,
waif, girl, woman,
like a fragile treasure,
like delicate leaves of Caucasian boxwood,
reaching for the sun in the breeze,
like fine lines of cord hung with clothes
above the slightly dampened tarmac
wash away the gashes, the slashes, the scratches,
the burns, the holes from knives and guns,
repeat
don’t hurt any of us ever again
for all eternity
AMEN

—Egana Djabbarova, translated from the Russian by Helena Kernan

Notes: "Allah rǝhmǝt elǝsin" is Azeri for rest in peace and "kolay gelsin" is Turkish for take it easy.


Reprinted with permission from F Letter: New Russian Feminist Poetry (isolarii, 2020).