More and more, mother-words
replace that other tongue.

In Russian, there is a word
for this kind of heat.

Once, in bed, you began
to speak it to me. Kiss me

I taught you to tell me
and you did. And I did. And now

I can feel it already: the cells of
my body regenerating in order

to become used to
the texture of July

this heat which is
nearly swelling. Nearly

golden. Nearly
sharp.

This is what we didn’t know: that any translation
is necessarily an act of approximation.

To acclimate to heat, my cells darken and become
sturdy to sun. In the process, they begin

forgetting you: first
come your eyebrows.

Once, you had to get used to it
the way I liked to trace them

as if to learn their shape. And now
to unlearn it without meaning to

to sweat it out. I heard that languages
are never lost once you have learned them, and it’s true:

the parts of me that speak you
have not dried out

but they do grow orange with
something like rust. With months

stacking. Swelling. There it is:
the months. They swelter.

 

*Russian word meaning "a sweltering heat".

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Yev Gelman is a poet and playwright from Palo Alto, CA, now based in Chicago. Her poems can be found in Right Hand Pointing, The Fantastic Other and Moonday Mag, among others. She has received a Best of the Net nomination and the Edward Shuman Award for Best Honors Thesis at Northwestern University. Follow her on Instagram @devonyhof or check out her website, devonyhof.com.

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