counting

one two three

counting each of us on the tree

It leaks sap, which looks like blood.

splashes, leaves a sweetish aftertaste 

and the smell gets into your nose

and it seems like it's only one day

just spread as butter on a slice

ten twenty thirty

the notches get deeper, the knife gets sharper

The amount of the sap is growing.

it pours out of the tree, flooding our boots

splashing in puddles, plugging our noses 

the smell rises, absorbes into the skin 

makes its way right to the heart

one hundred two hundred three hundred

soon the space will run out  on the tree

the knife becomes blunt 

can't cry any longer

smear tears mixed with juice

and the clear drops turn red

crawl up cheeks, then down the neck 

leave their prints on the chest, on the stomach 

until they're in the ground. 

thousands

thousands

hundreds of thousands 

so many of us are left in the ground

or never return

About the author

Polina Horlach

Poet, editor, journalist, holding a master’s degree in Ukrainian language and literature.