Six Poems for Sveta, the Day She Had Her Epiphany.

“I am living inside my head, waiting for an epiphany that is always just beyond my reach, make it so that we can be together.” Sveta

1.
We are connected—
her and I—like one
of those phones

made with a string
and soup cans.
Except, instead of cans,

we’ve punched holes
into our hearts
and tied knots at the ends.

When we pull away
from each other,
the line tightens—

so tight
you can hear everything:
like her husband

playing a mournful
tuba.

Days like this,
I wish she’d move closer—

cut me some slack.

---

2.

“…are you another one of those men who have hunted me?” —Sveta

I’ve never been to Africa,
not much into Hemingway,
or Fish and Game.

Once, when I was young,
I caught the moon
while sitting in a tree.

It was all quite
by accident—
I let her go right away.

I don’t know who
was more surprised.

Eventually,
she sent me a telegram:

STOP “I can’t stop
thinking of you.
I hate

you. I love
you. Sincerely,

The Moon.” STOP

---

3

“How are you Christopher? I want to know!” —Sveta

She loves me.

She loves me not.

She loves me……………..

She is always
spinning—
spinning—

spinning…………….

She spins around me.

Her heart is one of those
twirling machines
at Luna Park.

She makes me dizzy—
makes me pale—

won’t sit still.
She’s turning—turning—

blue in the face
from holding her breath.

She’s making me unsteady,
nauseous—

because
she won’t make up her mind.

---

4.

“I am crazy about you, Christopher…” —Sveta

She’s bought me four train tickets—
all going in different directions.

Writes me a poem in a telegram
but sends it to her husband instead.

“He wants to prove how much he loves me,”
she says. “I owe him that much.”

To help them out,
I buy him a puppy,
name it чувства долга

—

send it FedEx
with a note tied to its collar:

“She’ll love it.”

---

5

“Five hours ago I knew we were going to be together.” — Sveta

The clock above my stove
has stopped working—

something to do
with a sudden grease fire.

Now it looks
sort of like a Dali.

Five hours earlier,
I’m hanging out on the moon
with my girl.

We’re throwing rocks
at the earth, laughing, dancing—

and it’s striking
how the rocks
turn into falling

stars—

and people
all over
the world
start
making
wishes

because

of

us.

---

6.

“Let’s say that I was just a poet’s dream.” — Sveta
“I hate when they say that.” —Christopher

She stands,
brushing moondust
off her mirrored dress—

a hundred little earths
glimmer against her body.

I ask where she’s going.

She says
her husband needs her,
mumbles something

about being responsible—
about the puppy.

I ask:
what about me?

I get an answering machine
with a nice message:

“Sorry for missing your call…”
and “Leave your number…”
and “Please, don’t hate me…”
and “I will get back to you
as soon as I—”

beeeeeep.

I look down
at the frayed line
coming from my chest—

throw a rock at the earth

and make a wish.

I don’t leave a message.

---

POSTSCRIPT

The cycle uses surreal motifs—moonlight, telegrams, spinning rides, broken clocks, string-and-heart phones—to externalize the tension between intimacy and distance. Sveta becomes both a real person and a mythic figure, shimmering between longing and withdrawal. The repeated imagery of frayed lines, stopped clocks, and misdelivered messages underscores the central epiphany. Connection is desired, imagined, and feared in equal measure. The wish itself becomes the only stable truth.