Under a canopy skya man settles down a plastic apron on.
As the train slips away evenly, a ghost is left back on the tracks, I open the window,
glance into the courtyard, at the statue of Kirov. The Marshall as usual is raising his hand: Greetings, People Hello-Hello, fellow Communist Party members.
The pigeons shitting on it belong to this land, not to the hand that is hiding the clouds with its greeting,
while flies attack a fruit stand, and melons spill from a pile, and armor-plated bursts...
Tell them to keep their eyes, their brawn, the tentacles of their need sticking to my skin.
Their bluff and bluster. Poisoned tongues saying thirst as spell, hips as prophecy.
I’m loomed together, stars pinned to my hair, waiting for my ship to come in. No water, but
a dress made of salt. The only blue—my pulse when I couldn’t get out of bed. My heart’s rough
gem, calcified, fossil of some long-ago feeling— shatter-ready and stubborn. Everywhere I splinter.
Everywhere they hold dominion....