степь

your scent is here
trapped
within this faded fibrous
cotton

or do i imagine it

christmas here was white
though
not the silver-white of your 
hair

that i do not imagine

but white
the dusky white of winter Steppes
i have never seen, but know 
know as i know my own 
treeless grassless
plains
know as i know your own
ancient absent
musk

i close my eyes
my black and burning eyes
that fear the cold 
even as it calls to me  
even as i fear life with
even as i fear life without
you

he pressed me to the
balalaika that night
the night i called
your name
cupping the heel, he fingered
the finest points against the facing,
past the shield, until the rosette
rose
to meet his mouth

 
that, too, had been 
forgotten
until your voice
until your laughter
called forth memory
memory that exists
only
in relation to 
you

what, what, what, what
are we, my love

we do not know
we do not know
 
but, i
      suspect

we are Vysotsky’s
growls 
we are the scathing
snarls and rugged
rolls of his morbid
ecstasies

yes, my darling
i suspect
         that
is what 
      We
are


 © srogers 25 dec 2011

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