Deep in the scented house,
a herring merchant
is parting his wife's buttocks
with cold hands;

while she has buried her face
into the pillows
to watch the zebras
passing gently by:

they seem to float
like swollen butterflies,
their rhythmically-cantering bodies
striped and hot.

These are the things one hides,
thinks Feiga-Ita,
calmly and quietly trying
to go to sleep.