ARCTIC LATITUDES

                                       for the Ukrainian & Russian people

A weed-wacked lawn sprinkled with barbeque, baseball, and swimming pool,
                                       a pond so deep my hair trailed down into water as cold as the Neva.
                                                                                I saw what that river could see –
                                                                                                           Lenin, arm raised, palm turned up:

                                                   “Despair is typical of those incapable of struggle.”

My baleen lips had no bite. Better an albatross navigating over the sea,
             half my brain shut down. I didn’t know
                          the Arctic latitudes trifled with light. Vladimir veiled in iridescence,
                                                                                                           pink line across the horizon.

Hohenzollern. Hesse. Hemophilia.
           When the mystic pulled the ruble from the Tsarevich’s ear, did Alexandra
                                                                                understand the root meaning of amaze
                                                                                                                                                     is to confuse?

            Not everyone wanted to dance with the Ballets Russes.
                          Anna Pavlova, wearing ice skates, spun like a water spout.
                                                   Extending her arms, she slowed her twirl,
                                                                                and she could see the red sleighs,
                                                                                                           their metal blades carving ice.

Molotov. Moscow. Malaysia Airline.
           Bodies covered in cellophane, lying on their sides, legs bent and pulled-up waist high,

like the way I sleep every night. Now, the depth of water in which I swim,
                                       floating on my back, chin up so the water covers my ears.
                                                                  Arms stretched out. Eyes closed
                                                                                                           to that wild watermelon sun.

Sugar House Fall/Winter 2016

Written in response to the Russian Army’s missile attack
on a Malaysian Airlines flight over Ukraine on July 17, 2014.