A strange house

A strange house? A strange day or shade?
No one strange is here, no stranger.
Simply new flesh.
A story about the time without bodies,
without the bodily.
There were just souls.

The knots are the prints of hands,
heedfully gathered,
as only KR can,
meanings swaddled tight by a mother,
images and experiences.

All is explored and appropriated.
Everything is worn out and worn OURS.

And it is not a strange house.
There is no such thing as strange. It’s long since your own.
As a long time back (at first sight)
your own wind in Khakassia…
The wind roaming the back
of this long-since loved dog.

Like us, she plods along, and not by,
not in transit, not passing.
It’s a direct hit. Every time.
To self. To `here and now’.

This is Rozhkova’s world map.
No matter whether small or large.
A map of the large world.
It is always heedful and emotiona.
Tarrying tactfully,
judiciously lagging behind herself.
And, like on any map,
before you start moving,
you must find where you are.

Yurts and faces tied up taut.
Meanings, like their knots.
Too bad that we are immortal for such a short time.

Let’s go.

Daria Khubova