LENINGRAD, MID-WINTER

LENINGRAD, MID-WINTER

I remember Leningrad, mid-winter, 

before it became Sanct Peterburg, 

before the fall, where we watched the ice boats 

open and sluice the black arteries of the Neva River, 

how the rostral column of the Viking ships 

with its severed boat prows, bled into the sky, 

held asunder to the pale clouds 

where light reflected off snow 

falling, perhaps somewhere in Finland. 

The ancient windows of the Hermitage Palace 

were warped and buckled with age, slumped glass 

seeking the currents and eddies of the river, 

having survived the siege and revolution. 

I remember how the babushka greeted me 

when I entered the room, she said Matisse’s dancers 

righted the world, kept everything in motion. 

They were wrapped in a fulcrum of time. 

I was homesick, stuck in an exotic place like this 

always brought the unbidden ache 

for what was familiar and safe. 

It's almost as if we can never be satisfied 

with where and what we are—perverse memory, 

that thread of loss, like a red fishing lure

tangled in the back reaches of the mind. 

Valera the rock singer, took me out walking afterwards 

onto the vast frozen lakes of Ozirkii. 

We were far from shore, the bleak ice 

moaned and cracked and hissed beneath our feet. 

The distant shouting in a loudspeaker,

the red flag warning as we retreated 

to the marching song of an unseasonable thaw.

The dark eye of the lake opened up 

to the color of death and distant skies. 

Not now, not this time, the lake said.

12/29/21 CPITS Write On! Susie Terence class

I remember Leningrad, before it became St. Petersburg, mid-winter, where we watched the ice boats open black arteries of the Neva river, how the Viking column bled into the snow with its antlers held asunder to the pale sky where light reflected off the snow falling perhaps somewhere in Finland. The ancient windows of the Hermitage palace warped and buckled with age, slumped glass seeking the currents and eddies of the river, having survived the revolution. How the babushka greeted me each time I entered the room, she said Matisse’s dancers kept the world in motion, trapped in a fulcrum of time. I was homesick, being in an exotic locale like this always brought up the desire for what was familiar and safe. We can never be satisfied with where we are, it is a perverse thing about memory. that thread of loss like a red fishing lure. Valera took me walking afterwards out onto the frozen lakes of Ozirki. We were far from shore, and I could hear the ice moan and crack beneath our feet. The distant shouting as we retreated, the dark eye of the lake opening up to the color of death and distant skies. Not now, not this time, the lake said.

12/29/21 CPITS Write On! Susie Terence class