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

Black and white portrait of a man wearing spectacles.

They Could Have

CONSTANTINE CONTOGENIS
Near destitute, I’m this close to homeless. This killer of a city, Antioch, / it’s eaten all the money I have, / this killer and its cost of living. // But I’m young, in the best health. / I speak a marvelous Greek / (and I know, I mean “know,” my Aristotle, Plato, / the orators, poets, the—well, you name them).

March 2026 Poetry Feature: Welcome Back Peter Filkins

PETER FILKINS
pissarro is dead cézanne too / swept away like willowed flotsam / that brute degas gone as well / chafing tides the sea of years // long ago battles fought discarded / ballast tossed from fame’s balloon / rising like heat and the unheard prices / feeding straw to the fires of need // for more garden cuttings variants

Two Poems by Heather Bourbeau

This forest is named for the first head of the National Forest Service, who warned of assuming natural resources were inexhaustible, who said without conservation we pay the price of misery, degradation, and failure, who asked if these resources were for the benefit of us all or for the use and profit of a few? He was also a leading eugenicist.