Here Russia spreads her legs like the body compass of a prima ballerina
Here Russia spreads her legs like the body compass of a prima ballerina,
undoes a button on her soldierís greatcoat by the railroad station
and gets poured like soup to the aluminum dish in the restaurant
where Raskolnikov confused the bread of doom
with virginsí wombs.
Night, and in the Hotel Ural,
at the crossroad to Siberia,
I hang my belovedís face upon the portrait of Lenin drawn on the wall.
Her lips are painted revolutionary red
and a sled-dog etches
in the snow of her body
the thousands of miles that separate her
from the hand that writes these lines
in vodka ink.
By Ronny SomeckQLRS Vol. 3 No. 1 Oct 2003