“our monuments to southern california.” she calls them. (excerpt)

whatever the case may be, i have finally settled to the light of it. you know. like, the light of it. the morning softness, the blue so free, fresh. almost innocent, as though it wispy, waking up from the nap which is the night, swaddling the nape of the neck which is the night, in its loving gesture. how blue is loving. and the sky in the morning, so blue and loving. so blue and innocent. pure even. and in the evening, then the sky turns tangerine, husking all palms into silhouettes. and the sky next to the clumps of birds of paradise, assures that for the sky to find such mildness, back to the wispy, holy strata, the day must be glaring, ugly. disenchanting. beauty is only available amidst the program of extremes. the mild is mild in comparison.

 

but remember when you saw parrots? green parrots flying around in packs of four? flying around and frolicking through blue skies.

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from—“our monuments to southern california.” she calls them.—published by Ursus Americanus.

Buy it here

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olga mikolaivna was born in Kyiv and works in the (intersectional/textual) liminal space of photography, word, translation, and installation. Her debut chapbook cities as fathers is out with Tilted House. Her translation of Stanislav Belsky’s first full length collection in English, There Won’t Be a Culmination, is out with Dialagos / Lavender Ink. She lives in Philadelphia and teaches at Temple University.