Svetlana Litvinchuk
It was only in the after that my father took on his gentleness
I have learned the dead continue to change
after death. Each time I dusted off a home video,
living in the shoebox of memories, and projected
it onto a curtain shifting in the window of the present,
the light seemed to wash his shadow clean,
as if beatified by memory.
Like that one visit home when he sat on the floor
in the doorway, polishing the scuffs from my boots.
He grabbed my hands—softer than I remember—
leather polish soaked into the callouses
he built while raising me.
With vodka on his breath, he insisted my hands
carry electricity, can you feel it, I don’t know
what to do with this power. When I place them
on my chest, I feel small shocks.
Then he pissed in the sphagnum moss
lining the ficus in the hall and stumbled
to the red leather sofa in his music studio.
Later, I found him snoring, knees curled
like a child. I left him, hands folded
across his chest to heal whatever was hurting
in his sleep.
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Image by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels
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Svetlana Litvinchuk is anticipating the release of her debut poetry collection, Navigating the Hallways by Starlight (Fernwood Press, September, 2026). Nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and the Rhysling Awards, her poetry appears in Pleiades, New Orleans Review, swamp pink, Redivider, and elsewhere. Find her on Instagram @s.litvinchuk or at www.svetlanalitvinchuk.com.
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