There was only this joy—
I was on his lap
when he squeezed juice from an orange peel
into my eyes.
Then he stopped thinking of me
as he lit a cigarette,
but I still could hardly walk.
I came sliding off his lap
and pressed my cheek to his shoe . . .
How different the sound under the table—
the voices of guests,
stifled noises,
stifling space.
Barely,
barely did my lashes
dry from the orange-juice drenching.
There was this one joy . . .
—Translated from the Georgian by Timothy Kercher and Nene Giorgadze
