The 2River View


30.4 (Summer 2026)

Dmitry Blizniuk

(translated from Ukrainian by Sergey Gerasimov)

My Fish Is Going to Live

it's so sudden—what do catfish and carp feel

when an artillery shell hits the lake?

a piece of shrapnel broke through the brick wall,

busted the fishbowl

as if it were a clear bag of water and broken glass.

she collapsed on the floor,

wet strands of hair

mixed with algae,

all over her back.

an angelfish was flopping on the linoleum near her face—

a bright comma

of suffocating life.

but she was unharmed—not a scratch—

only her legs stuck together like two lollipops,

and became dusty bluish:

the color of fish scales in the moonlight.

without a word,

having turned into a mermaid, she crunched her fins in slippers

on the broken wet glass.

went to the kitchen, filled a pot with water.

picked up four fish and a snail,

looked for cigarettes on the windowsill,

while a warm wind was kissing her webbed fingers

with a wedding ring on one of them.

my fish is going to live . . . 

 

 

There Are No More Seasons

the winter evening carved

a cube of a winter unicorn

from glowing marble.

its mouth steaming,

it chews icy apples.

a white bird,

a few seconds of warmth,

oily sparks of gold

in the evening windows.

this scarecrow

of peaceful winters,

why have you hobbled into the free verse now?

this boat has neither bottom,

no oars, and its sail is eaten by rot.

ashes of memories are worth their weight in gold,

or in entropy.

I am stuck in the tax office of logic,

I've lost my dashing pirate

improvisations.

in the evening a squirrel will flare up on a pine bole

like a bundle of bronze wires

and flow smoothly into the crown.

a bat will douse everything with ultrasound—

a flying fountain,

a sign of a night predator.

it's wonderful.

and it doesn't matter that there's a bomb above me,

and a cistern of diesel fuel below.

smoke spreads, black like a magpie.

a window frame hangs like a knocked-out tooth,

held on by a flap of skin.

a plane in the sky is a letter

that no one wants to read.

the smoke from the hookah of death.

black tenacious weeds

grow inside my muscles and bones.

inside my feelings and thoughts.

there are no more seasons of the year.

only seasons of war.


Dmitry Blizniuk is a poet from Ukraine. His most recent poems have appeared in Agni, Beloit Poetry Journal, Cincinnati Review, Los Angeles Review, The Nation, Prairie Schooner, and POETRY Magazine.