Peycho Kanev
Stillness
Only a sliver of the moon hangs above the house,
a piece of blood-red liver sizzles in the pan,
and steam from the warm bread rises toward the milky-white ceiling.
Everything else is frozen. The boy in the bed,
the woman by the stove with her mouth open, as if about to sing or scream –
the record skips and skips, but the music does not stop.