You say dobrie vecher.
Me, I’m frying livers in pork fat
plump pills, they smell hot,
scattered with translucent onion.

But you’ve been married for ages.
You brought gin under your arm.
A book that snows dust down your coat.

You kept your father’s trophies,
remember dreams you had
when you were eleven—ice, a steep hill,
lights—I make you kasha.
You pinch it with your fingers
and hold it on your tongue like caviar.
Dobrie vecher,
the snow settles between stems,
under the roots like hollow bones, set and white.