A sterling silver medallion
dangles between developing *******,
tarnished though holy,
somehow looking crestfallen.
A bland yet pretty face stares
at me with wonder as I pick it up,
inspecting the tiny inscription.
Her curious brown eyes
watch me as I openly admire her
Saint Jude medallion.
Her small lips open
like the petals of a blooming rose.
“Saint Jude? Who is that?”

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.

Orange is a color of few words-
It doesn’t seem to have much of a definition.
No one has ever said much about this one.
Most people forget about it completely.
But I wonder if
Orange is a merely a more melancholy yellow?

Today, he lives his life unchanged,
unaware of the gifts he gives,
the joy he brings.
My heart has long since
run out of summers.
All my leaves and flowers have gone-
I only have the snow now.
His body looks like ice,
pale and beautiful,
just like porcelain-
his hair black like my sky
between the blizzards.
But his lips are red and warm,
like the heat I yearn for.
There is fire in this body yet.
But alas, he does not want me-
I will only rob him of his warmth,
the fire that fuels him.
It is unintentional.
I swear I don’t mean to.
I want, even though I cannot have.
Selfishness.
Unbalanced.
But when he holds me
he becomes my shelter.
When he kisses me,
he offers me warmth and release,
relieving me from my Siberian winter.
When he pretends to love me,
he brings me Spring
even if it’s just for one night.
Yet I can give him nothing in return;
he does not want anything from me-
I have nothing to offer him,
for I am all out of summers.
He will not be able to keep me warm for long.
He will not stay here.
He will soon move on and search for someone
more worthy,
more profitable,
someone beautiful just like him.
I only have ice to give,
even though I love.
Love is no good when one has no warmth.
I can only be half a lover,
unsuitable and inferior.
But just for tonight,
he offers me spring
in the form of an embrace
and a kiss.
I love.
I melt.
*Снегу́рочка.

My dearest brother,
I go blind so you can see.
Like Cain and Abel.

A forlorn and simple scene.
The payphone dangles
lifeless
limp
and silent.
No words enter.
No words exit.
Is someone waiting on the other line?
Waiting to hear good news?
Waiting for even just
*hello?

I sat there staring at her from across the table
as we shared yet another quiet meal together,
observations buzzing around in my already crowded mind.
Her face looked clean and resheshed,
her hair soft and coifed and freshly washed,
her white gloves unstained and clamped snuggly
around her slender arms.
Would she noticed my threadbare coat,
the circles underneath my tired eyes,
the cloth cap that used to sit upon my head?
Was I truly good enough for her?
Her smile said yes, but the condescending
grimaces on the faces of her parents upstairs said
no.
I didn’t need to see them to know that they were there.
I just knew it. I just knew.
How discouraging.
I looked at her, watching her silently from across the table,
eating with one hand
and fumbling the lump in my pocket,
running my fingers over it,
meditating whether or not I was foolish enough
to claim her,
whether or not I was selfish enough
to want her to be mine.
I was a narcissist to even think of it.
What would her parents say?
I bit my lip and pulled the parcel out,
summoning her attention toward my hand,
eyes glowing with curiosity and anticipation.
I stood up, but paused.
Just say “Will you marry me?”
It’s that easy. Only four words. Just say it!
As I opened the box with numb fingers,
I began to stutter the words,
like my humble tongue had been enchanted with some
kind of curse.
Cowardice.
I slid the parcel back into my pocket,
having been defeated without even having fought.
The look in her eyes shifted and it took me a moment
to fully process what was going through my
beloved’s head.
As she slowly returned to her meal,
I recognized it as disappointment.
Somehow, the feeling was mutual.