Translated by Adam Cullen 


I’m at home awaiting a god

awaiting at an open window

my own little god

who should be getting home right about now

the rooms are aired out

a simple meal made from not much of anything steams on the table

awaiting us

(it’s the end of the month and my wallet’s

also been effectively aired out)

but I know that

emptiness is often a blessing

and not much is everything

and here my tiny god comes

everything fluttering around him

blissfully and carelessly

coat flaps sneaker laces scarf backpack

unzipped and wide open

he’s dragging a stick across fence posts

and they sing

and only a teensy god

knows how to make such music

he steps inside

and look he’s got an ice-cream cone

garnished with young pine needles

and he says it’s because he knows:

it’s good when something’s not just sweet

but a little tart and bitter, too

and then he speaks to me

about squirrels and jays and robins

and about how he plays a secret game

that I also played

back when I was a tiny god:

if you see a woodpecker

it’ll be a good day

we tell each other the exact same stories

over and over

and never tire of them

mom tell me again

what it felt like to hold the bullfinch in your palm

when it flew against the kitchen window that one time

and was lying on the ground, unconscious

I watch him and I think:

my god has grown

he’s tossed his socks in the corner

and, all on his own, is determinedly tugging

slivers out of his big toe with tweezers

but this god doesn’t like washing his feet yet

I see that at night when he sleeps

scratched feet sticking out from under the blanket

yet that doesn’t stop me

from bowing down and kissing those feet

my god curls his toes for a moment when I do

and then sleeps soundly onward

while I sit in the beauty of that divine movement

for a long


long while

Veronika Kivisilla is a poet.