Triin Paja (b. 1990) is the author of three Estonian-language poetry collections and a recipient of the Värske Rõhk Poetry Award, the Betti Alver Literary Award, and the Juhan Liiv Prize for Poetry. Her English poetry has received two Pushcart Prizes and her chapbook, Sleeping in a Field (coming out in 2024), won the Wolfson Poetry Chapbook Prize. Her poetry has been translated into English, Czech, Finnish, Russian, Lithuanian, Latvian, and Slovenian, and she is a member of the Estonian Writers’ Union. She has translated into Estonian poems by Ocean Vuong, Jacqueline Winter Thomas, Indrė Valantinaité, Benediktas Januševičius, Dovilė Kuzminskaitė, Kirils Vilhelms Ēcis, Lote Vilma, Donika Kelly, and Fatimah Asghar.
Chest
people believed that cranes swallowed heavy stones
before a storm to keep the wind from sweeping them
every which way. grandpa
was even lighter than me by the end.
the wind carried him away.
he left early to buy orange juice
for his hungover daughter.
he spoiled dad.
he peeled pomegranates,
filled bowls
with ruby seeds,
served them to his grandchild.
he carried water, he gave blood, he surrendered.
he lies deep in the raven of my pupil.
I know how exceptional even tar and sweat are,
because he no longer knows.
listen, now,
to the rain falling softly,
murmuring like mossy stones.
someone climbs out of the velvety interior
of the chest of grandpa’s body.
Dad’s Legs
broad daylight, naked beneath the covers,
thunder and my partner’s breathing
in my ears and on my shoulder,
I think of dad’s legs.
my sister and I were stork chicks on his tanned
knees. so says a black-and-white photo.
legs that later languished
and will never leave grandma’s side again.
I’d keep those hairs,
dark and gross like fly legs,
in a silver 19th-century tobacco box,
if I had them. touch is exceptional
when it’s thundering and the window’s open.
each is buried apart
in the family grave. I’d certainly like
if we all held hands underground.
The Dead Love Not the Land
the sky is a dress mended with golden thread
that grandma wears. dad dips down to the sea in
funnels like sleeves, though he knows not to drink.
the steeple in which dad and grandma drank together
is the image of a church tower coated in ash.
dad departed six months
after grandma –
mother took son along.
I run through nettles.
I dig up grandma’s hair.
braiding it I realize the dead
love not the land, but the sky, water’s promise.
Translated by Adam Cullen
