Podlasie is a stroll in the rain along the forestry park, and a sweet — sweet first kiss under the umbrella: her strangely bland lips, intensely crimson, constantly juicy, provokingly fleshy.
She in an absurd sanguine dress, all buttocks, merrily dancing and laughing along a country dirt road in Supraśl.
Her hobbit feet in purple suede shoes stepping on the mossy cobblestones of Tykocin.
She in a red gown taking the picture of a tourist who takes the picture of a ruminating cow who inevitably looks at her.

Her red laughter from the back seat of the red car.

A balneary whose decaying customers coveted her freshness, beauty and youth, while disapproving of my age; father and daughter?, satyr and nymph?

She peeping through the window of and old russian style restaurant with a well, an ancient 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’s squatting: hot, humid and knickersless.
A silent walk in the forest looking for a cushiony place 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 naked thigs under her uplifted skirt in the trunk of the car.
A trading post with strange, delicious food over solid wood tables, under the tree branches, right by the Belarusian border where her roots lay.
Her strawberry lips crimsoned by ripe leaking strawberries in a sunny summer day.
A little wooden room in the Hajnówka youth hostel, with a narrow bed where we love and sleep and love in inevitable close-up contact the whole night long.
A bicicle ride to Zabłudów, pursuing her hypnotic rump bottom, wrapped up in clownish rainbowed trousers; chasing the notes that her chrystal-like laughter writes in the air.
A break for lunch, and her perfect, snow-white teeth biting lipstick-red tomatoes and blood-brown kabanos.
A worn out, unfolded map of the region where she traces with her bitten-nailed fingers delicious trips that would bring us delicious memories of… Podlasia.

This entry was posted in Fiction and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *