Podlasie

Podlasie is a stroll in the rain along the forestry park, and a sweet — oh! how sweet first kiss under the umbrella: her strangely bland lips, intensely crimson, invariably juicy, provokingly fleshy.

She in an absurd sanguine-red dress, all buttocks, merrily dancing and laughing along a dirt road in rural Supraśl.

Her hobbit feet in purple suede shoes stepping on the mossy cobblestones of Tykocin.

She in a red gown photographing a tourist who photographs a ruminating cow who inevitably stares at the gown.

Her red laughter from the back of our red car.

A balneary whose waning customers covet her freshness, her beauty and youth, while their glances disapprove of incestuous me: father and daughter?, satyr and nymph?

She peeping out the window of and old Soviet-style restaurant featuring a well, an ages-old dry tree-trunk and traditional Russian music.

An Orthodox church, her heavenly eyes staring at the heaven’s doors with reverence and awe.

A drowsy warm afternoon, flies buzzing around the massive wood table where she squats, hot, humid and knickersless.

A silent walk in the woodland looking for a cushiony spot where to lay and get laid.

Her emerald-blue eyes reflecting the sky-blue sky.

She shooting at the shutters of the shelters and the sheds.

A forest road leading nowhere and her musical voice asking a peasant some impossible directions.

The heat and her odourless sweat, and her groans and her thigs underneath the uplifted skirt in the back seat.

A trading post with peculiar, delicious dishes served on solid-wood tables under the tree foliage, right across Belarus where her roots lay.

Her strawberry lips crimsoned by leaking ripe strawberries in a sunny summer day.

A small wooden room in Hajnówka’s youth hostel, with a narrow bed where we love and sleep then love again in forced close-up contact the whole night long.

A bicicle ride to Zabłudów, pursuing her hypnotic rump, wrapped in a pair of clownish rainbowed trousers; chasing after the notes her chrystal laughter writes in the air.

A break for lunch, and her imperfectly perfect snow-white teeth biting lipstick-red tomatoes and blood-brown kabanos.

A worn out, unfolded map of the region where she outlines, with bitten-nailed fingers, delicious routes that would bring us delicious memories of Podlasie…

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