i. [come what may]
and in the fields of st. petersburg in the spring, the poppies
clot like let blood and the fieldworker's wives sow seeds in the worried furrows
of the field, weeping out of their hands, their wide and manly hands.
they bend in the fields, singing low songs to the earth, as the men
clear away the stuttery old skeletons of last years corn. the citybells
grope and glean their dull notes from the sky, and the moon is red
that night, from the fires in the field.
ii. [rasputin]
mad monk, mad strannik, pilgrim
from the wasteland. the domes and bascillicas
rise around you, like such orthodox mushrooms. wild-eye,
unkempt, mad shaman from the east, coming to us with cracked
sandals and a hushed voice. he lies on the bed, good son, flapping,
bloodless hemophiliac, his head pale and lit from within, like a nightlight,
he wears his skin like a gown, tucking in his bones. bruise of the night,
sobbing by the gaslight and bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, the doctors
shuffling and chirruping, like birds over tossed breadcrumbs.
dumb show of shadows on the wall, and cries
from the chamber rooms, which are red,
plush
as skinned plums.
mad monk, you approach him, you approach the bloodless tsarevich
from the east, from the tundraland where the peasants squint
at the endless sun in the endless night and you place your hand
on his forehead, whispering such sweet and honey
heresy.
iii. [the storming of the winter palace]
the face of our lady of st. theodore turns black
in oktober, and the harvest moon gestates, red placenta.
the Bolsheviks march in st. petersburg
and the bells are quiet, unpronounced, like silent letters in a
strange word. the poppies find their petals come out in handfuls,
red indulgences, red blood cells, and the fieldworkers
whisper 'lenin, lenin'
in their sleep.
