graharaja:

“This poem begins: “Late January, the darkness is handwritten onto trees.” As I speak of her, she sits at the mirror, combing her hair. From her hair the water pours, the leaves fall. I undress her, my tongue passing over her skin. “Potatoes!” she tells me, “I smell like potatoes!” and I touch her lips with my fingers.”

— Ilya Kaminsky, from ‘Natalia’, Dancing in Odessa (via soracities)