Just back from away from the red rock, my black
lacquer fresh, a troika scene from Pushkin racing across my back.
Back from a one-way student exchange to the Soviet Union.
We wore orange pioneer scarves, ate spoiled meat and black
potatoes, wandered alone through the Hermitage or crept
barefoot under stars to float hand in hand in the Black
Sea to bring peace or something.
A babushka tried to untuck my black
bubble miniskirt, running kind hands over my thighs
in consternation, swiftly caressing up my back.
A doctor in the underground club playing Åквариум
said please help us please come back
take my address. But I lost it looking for strawberries
or anything fresh in a city that only sold two crookback
green suitcases. I came home hungry, unable
to explain the whip crack of lampblack
lies, invented rivalry and pinching
want, went out to the back
garden to eat ripe apricots alone, naked and unwashed.
Moonlight pooled in mouthfuls taken by the red winged black-
birds while I was gone. Silver light traced me
hanging on to the tree, thunderclapped. Horizon flashing black.