Alla Vilnyansky - Two poems

Master Class: Cinderella Practicing Violin

It takes special skill to acknowledge that almost anything may be mended. My mother plays the piano, beats her knuckles against the black and white keys—welds sounds together. Fingers thick; nails painted crimson not the typical hands of a concert pianist. Above her depicted in a Victorian dress—the instrument serving as her accessory; her captive audience. Who unhinged the gate through which her carriage, was set to arrive?

(previously published in Zaum)



On Lenin’s Mausoleum and Love
After Jenny Browne

Not every glance is capable of conveying
all things at once: love, anger, frustration.

I remember your mother’s house
the inside of a ship.

I know you thought things would be alright
turning to sand,
all of it coming down.

In “Love Letter to a Stranger”
you’re always you and I’m always me.
A body you’ll do anything to preserve.

(previously published in Scryptic)



Alla Vilnyansky was born in the Ukraine and came to the U.S. with her family as a refugee. Her work has previously appeared in Zaum, Poetry International and Boog City. She is currently working on her first book.

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