Notes From The Revolution
Posted: 18 Nov 2017, 19:45
On the 100th Anniversary
Eleven time zones in Russia,
each with its own small sun.
No one knows the hour of the day
or recalls the time the last blood
moon hung in the spires
of St. Petersburg.
To the east, washer women still rise up,
set fire to kettle, boil their black
babushkas, wring them to stiffen
into rat tails on the hearth.
Their drunk husbands lumber
in, collide with the door post
hoping to beat them awake.
The barking of neighborhood dogs
is like soldier shouting orders
man-to- man down a sentry line.
It's 4 a.m. and I am inhabited again
by the spirits of slain Cossacks.
They cry out for blood
and more onions.
Eleven time zones in Russia,
each with its own small sun.
No one knows the hour of the day
or recalls the time the last blood
moon hung in the spires
of St. Petersburg.
To the east, washer women still rise up,
set fire to kettle, boil their black
babushkas, wring them to stiffen
into rat tails on the hearth.
Their drunk husbands lumber
in, collide with the door post
hoping to beat them awake.
The barking of neighborhood dogs
is like soldier shouting orders
man-to- man down a sentry line.
It's 4 a.m. and I am inhabited again
by the spirits of slain Cossacks.
They cry out for blood
and more onions.