Seashells, twigs, and sand.
Brick, iron, and mortar.
Something as weak as shore debris
will be carried away with the tide,
but what of the iron?
It will corrode and the mortar
will wear away.
It’s the same as the sand castle.
It just takes it longer to
fall apart.
They are also the same because,
at one point or another,
someone took the initiative
to dream them and create them.
True, I am the master engineer
who created the stone fortress,
but before that I was a child
and all I could build was a sand castle.
I put hours into making it perfect,
only to have it rinsed away
by the afternoon tide,
never to return again.
But I suppose that’s alright,
because for those few minutes
that they castle was finished
I was happy.

I watched in awe as
Nikolai faced his wife,
not like a husband, but like a soldier.
His countenance was the essence
of a nation hardened by animosity,
his pale face clean shaven,
his black hair slicked back,
his eyes bloodshot and world-weary.
He was leaving his wife for a country
he no longer loved, no longer pledged allegiance to,
despite her pleas for him to stay.
I knew not why he had to leave;
I knew not why he chose to comply.
He never acted of his own accord;
he only followed orders,
the devious wishes of his superiors.
His broad imposing figure towered over us,
steadfast and unaffected,
his face bearing neither smile nor frown.
He only clasped his wife’s hand
and looked into her tearful eyes.
До свидания, моя дорогая.
With a slow, statuesque dignity
he affixed his military cap upon his head
and departed,
stoically descending into battle
virtually unaffected by the
bitter and ruthless Russian gusts,
with me in tow.
To me, he was not Nikolai anymore;
now he was Lieutenant Colonel.
We were not brothers anymore.
He was my commander.
I was his subordinate.
We weren’t familiar with each other anymore.
After all, I was only a child
Who had never known war
And he was a man
Who had never known peace.

Raw energy.
Despite the stiffness in his fingers,
despite the way his fingertips harden with calluses,
the industrious pianist hammers out the same tune
that he played last night,
and the night before,
and the night before that,
and unnumbered evenings before that.
Each notes falls magically into place,
none out of tune or without purpose,
perfectly in time.
Raw diligence and focus flooding his brown eyes,
gazing deeply into the sheet music.
His yellow forehead wanted dabbing,
Steeped in his sweat.
A manifestation of his time spent in his trade.
The conscientiousness in his eyes.
The raw vitality of his weathered hands.
The way he fills each note with sentiment.
Perhaps those are what keep calling me near?

The French man looks up toward the sky,
Cigarette puffs mocking the minute traces
Of clouds above.
Each puff transient like his youth
Long since sunken,
Immersed in sand and snow.
He plays his accordion,
A forlorn and saggy tune,
One that he had learned in his ancient youth.
A tune with no words,
No meaning.
A love song,
A battle hymn?
As the old hands wove the song together
Only three people noticed.
A woman who was walking alone
Suddenly began to cry
For her lover who had abandoned
Her with child.
A Polish grandfather just across the street
Cradles his young grandson in his lap,
Telling him stories about his
Experience on the battlefield,
Much to the boy’s enchantment.
Granddaughter leaning against his side
dreaming.
And the old accordion man,
Dejected and forlorn
continued to sing his song
While the rest of Paris was asleep.

An imperfect being.
A shy and shameful creature.
A scarred body,
a flawed body.
She grows her hair long
so that he won’t see the scars on her back,
so that he will not count the marks,
ghastly adornments from her worldly experience
too disgraceful to be called badges of honor-
so he will not see the imperfection.
A naked body,
a chubby body,
a dishonored body,
fit only to be obedient.
Wanting of love,
but not deserving,
not receiving.
All she can do is submit
and hope that he won’t look.