Leaving Lviv

By OLENA JENNINGS

Empty streets, even our taxi 
is missing, but the train station 
is crowded. I comb  
my hair, looking at  
the reflection 
in the ticket window. 
I look out at the morning. 
The morning isn’t working. 
Light in the station  
replaces the sun. 
We walk along the platform. 
Inside the car, we look at 
my reflection 
in the window. 
We are ready to see 
my reflection in other faces.  
The countryside passes. 
We are afraid of loss, 
looking into each other’s faces. 
His stare will keep me in place, 
my green eyes, coloring his brown.  
We drank beer with the poet 
and he pulled me into translation, 
at the moment and on the page. 
I only wanted what was familiar, 
the shapes that were always  
beneath my fingers. 
I wanted to learn the contours of my own 
voice in our closed compartment.  

 

[Purchase Issue 31 here.]

 

Olena Jennings is the author of the collection The Age of Secrets. She is the translator or co-translator of collections by Ukrainian poets Iryna ShuvalovaKateryna KalytkoVasyl MakhnoYuliya Musakovska, and Anna Malihon. She lives in Queens, New York City, where she founded the Poets of Queens reading series and press.

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Leaving Lviv

Related Posts

Loons in Strandir

JEFFREY WOLF
The fjords sit back and cast their spell. They rise from the ocean like the backs of sleeping beasts. For eons, they’ve waited. Layer after layer, gray upon gray, so deep and infinite that I start to feel afraid. Surely this is where the darkness lives.

May 2026 Poetry Feature: Arielle Hebert, from Bottom Feeders

ARIELLE HEBERT
Home again at the water’s edge, / palms dancing in salt breeze. / I take a too-deep breath / and the air prickles my lungs / like an unfiltered cigarette. / Only the tourists are swimming, / coughing through the algal bloom, / eyes bloodshot and skin burning.

Book cover of Cece

Review of Cécé by by Emmelie Prophète

SAM SPRATFORD
Uncle Frédo lies in the dark, water dripping through the sheet-metal roof. His American Dream crushed by the reality of existence as a non-white, non-citizen in the U.S., he returns to Haiti for the remainder of his life. He rarely speaks and is nearly always drunk. He spends his days in a dreamless twilight zone between sleep and wakefulness.