My mother’s house
Russia
Calm are the wolf’s bronze udders,
calm the light around her
fur, out-starred with frost
I am 43
Moscow we will not live
Russia
Iron shoe
its little
incurved length and width
Russia old
root cellar old mouth of
blood under-the-earth
pulling us down into herself
no room to lie down
and your poor hand
over and over
draws my brain
back to your breast’s small
campfire
Voronezh we won’t live
not even my hand
to hold to your hand, useless.
snuffing the fishing light, shoving off.
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