She says we don't have the right kind of basement in our building. . .

she says
we don’t have the right kind of basement in our building
I had to leave, no one can hide in there
we couldn’t leave for a whole week straight
men elbowed us out
we were weaker, there was no room for us
in the past we thought about nice furniture
home improvements and such
now we think
our basement doesn’t work
it won’t protect us, it’ll collapse on us
it’s worse than sitting outside

we dragged our mattresses and pillows onto the floor
so that we could fall down as soon as it all starts
we fell down and lay there

my husband stayed behind
someone had to stay home
otherwise there’d be no home to come back to
there may be nowhere to go back to anyway
he watches the apartment
so no one moves in and takes our things
he calls once a week from some high-rise
where he magically gets cell reception
he says a few words and hangs up
I am alive
call back next Saturday

when a four-wheeler with a mortar
passed down the street
we didn’t ask who are you
whose side are you on
we fell down to the floor and lay there

on our way to the market
the bullets whistled over our heads
we arrived here with a single bag
there wasn’t enough room for people, let alone things

she speaks
as the August air
enters the room
in the yard
my coworkers are gathering overripe plums
last year those were perfect
this time around
we missed our harvest
now it’s too late

I listen, and I don’t know
if heaven and hell really exist
they must be separated by a journey
in a minivan, packed full of people
where plums ripen in silence
where people fall to the ground
and we’re experiencing these moments
after death


Translated from the Russian by
Oksana Maksymchuk and Max Rosochinsky