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DZVINIA ORLOWSKY POEM FOR MY CAT SHEEP Your time was up when you crossed the road — Sheep ruin I the grass for horses. Their determination is though I wasn’t sure, afraid to look. to move like clouds one by one in loose groups. Here Keecha. In cold rain they are a crowd Come keecha. waiting for an angel to appear on a leafless bush. ’’Ivan” my father named you though it would have been more fun In bright daylight you’ll see them glistening to name you Volodimir, after the Horrible, on hillsides, at night they try to absorb the moon. Sleepwalkers, they never who (struck down, beheaded) stop counting themselves to themselves. could still get up and run. they are a crowd. There were many black male cats in Brunswick, unexplained sounds, eight more lives to go around. Surely you would come back... “Sheep” and “Poem for My Cat” are reprinted from Dzvinia But after that, everything that moved Orlowsky: A Handful of Bees by permission of Carnegie Mellon University Press © 1994 by Dzvinia Orlowsky. wasn't you. From the Diary of a Ukrainian Houseswife SKELETON IN THE CLOSET by DMZ I have a special closet in the vestibule of my house. This most convenient chamber has a window and ample shelves; I use it to store extra dishes, glasses, trays and other miscellaneous utensils needed for enter taining. What a blessing it is, to be able to find things at a glance, to have things readily accessible, and to be able to put them all back with ease. I just love that closet. During the Christmas season some years ago, just when my entertaining activities were at their peak, I noticed an odor emanating from my wonderful closet. At first, the odor was very faint. It was also unusual and unfamiliar. And believe me, I know my odors! As a housewife of many years and a girl scout champion of games of Kim which tested the senses, I could recog nize by smell any number of things ranging from soiled diapers to rotten eggs to pieces of old cheese. The smell in my closet, however, was new to me. And day by day, each time I entered the closet, the odor grew stronger and stronger. Soon I could smell it even out side the closet. This became a serious concern to me because the closet is in the hall that leads to my front door. I began to imagine what my guests would think when they entered the house and smelled that foul smell —what a first impression — the housewife’s a slob. I poked about in the closet, sniffing like a dog, with no success, comforted only by the fact that I was the only one who had noticed it so far. My husband was not a kitchen helper and had no need to go onto that closet. But as Christmas approached, my daughter came home for the holidays and she noticed it right away. “Mom,” she asked, in her most tactful manner, “why does your НАШЕ ЖИТТЯ”, ЧЕРВЕНЬ 1996 23
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