Poetry Collection
Moscow’s Rejected Margaritas
Before they found Margarita Nikolaevna, Koroviev and Azazello did most of the searching.
Behemoth did some searching too, but was distracted by altogether too many things to be of much use—
chess matches in the park
a pawn shop (with a set of excellent dueling pistols for sale)
a polka band, which he changed into flamingoes
a stray child
tulips
a very nervous poodle
and
fish.
Hella stayed home with Messire
(we think)
where she did embroidery
(we think).
One does not ask
what Messire does
when he is out of view.
(We are quite certain of this.)
Sixty-eight Margaritas had no royal blood, not even a drop,
not a smidgen, not a hint,
despite twenty-three of them thinking they did
with eighteen hoping for a restoration
two planning to leave for France
three being staunch Party members
and all of them terrified
that someone would find out.
Six Margaritas were under the age of twelve.
Three Margaritas took the appearance of
Azazello and Koroviev at their doors
to be proof
that their neighbors had been poisoning them
and that they had in fact become delirious
as a result of the toxins.
Neither man undertook to disabuse them
of this notion, although Koroviev did take a
glass of pear juice from one woman
and left the other two with oranges
and pocketknives.
Two Margaritas were being poisoned by their neighbors,
but were not hallucinating.
They were merely unpleasant
and agitated
and too ill to leave their beds.
In addition, one Margarita was in fact
poisoning her neighbor,
a cruel but celebrated man
who died instead of tripping over
a poodle (not the one Behemoth saw)
and breaking his neck.
Four somewhat elderly Margaritas
and one very young one
entertained thoughts of becoming nuns.
Perhaps they were delusional.
In any event,
they were ruled out as a matter
of suitability, although their spiritual states
did offer some amusing if entirely imaginary scenarios.
Eight Margaritas were already witches;
two were also literary critics;
none were appropriate
for various reasons
including
fear of heights
poor hygiene
an allergy to dust
and gout.
Seven Margaritas said that cats
made them sneeze,
although one,
a large, older lady,
cuddled him against her
voluptuous bosom—
in which he fit quite well,
given his own large stature—
for quite some time,
fed him cream and (definitely illegal) caviar,
and brushed his coat with her
own silver-backed (possibly fake)
hairbrush.
Behemoth argued for her
but no one
listened to him.
One was a sculptor
whose eyes burned so intensely
Koroviev was certain she had already
met their master.
One was a ballerina
whose talent was so clearly
derived from diabolical sources
that she too
was passed over.
One was a Jew, living alone,
writing under an assumed name.
The searchers, feeling compassionate,
whisked her away to
an entirely different
country
for her own safety.
Four Margaritas brandished ancient-seeming ikons,
pulled out from beneath layers
of sweaters and cloth and memories
at them. Two more threatened them
with bronze heads of Lenin
and one drew, clattering it in the scabbard,
breaking bits of rust onto the polished floor,
a cavalry sabre
of a war
long past.
One Margarita called the demons her sons
and was so pleased that they’d come to visit.
One served them tea with jam
but could not speak—she’d lost
her tongue
and toes
and fingers
and husband
and daughters
to purges and pernicious cold.
Five Margaritas were ecstatic
and screamed yes
and yes and yes
and circled about the rooms
that they were never allowed to leave.
and four Margaritas simply,
perhaps wisely, perhaps foolishly,
said
no, for we do not believe in devils.
Lady, Maid, Invocation
I have raised up my arms to console her
and I have given her
all of the soap.
I have tried to sing her to sleep,
brought her draughts
of nightshade and herbs.
I have brought the doctor
who can do nothing at all
and I am afraid
when she walks.
The new moon holds the old moon
in its arms,
a sickle of light that gives her
her path.
I follow
as I must
where she wanders,
but her galled-up brains
are trapped
in a room
of her own
bloody decoration.
The chamber
her mind inhabits
is wet
and thick
with the dust of night,
with spoor
from the ride,
with the taste
of wool and iron.
In it she has
but one job
and easy one:
to leave behind
what should have been left behind
before.
I leave behind
her room
where her bed has been empty
for weeks.
I leave behind
my own sleep
which she has unknowingly
killed.
I know
her secrets.
And I will borrow her
cloak and call
for the raven,
the wolf,
the sightless
substances
to preserve my sanity
by bringing her end.
Come, you spirits!
Tend to me and this my charge,
this cruel and murdering woman.
Make steel my bones
and smoke of hers
that she will be
gusted away
over the parapets.
Come, you spirits!
I give you my purpose:
Take now this woman who
owes you, and return to me
my innocence. Let me be
the flower that knows not
the serpent.
Come, you spirits!
Claim her unnatural body,
and give me rest
for the nights and days to come.
Cleanse my conscience, and
let me wake to the
cold air in which she
as left this plane
as a single exhalation.
The queen, my lord, is dead.
My own tomorrow
is now again my own
and I shall sleep
not tempest-tossed
but charm-wound
with peace.
Highway Drone
Emptiness full of sky
and grass and long road,
heat lines, ocular tricks.
Sun glare and the radio
stream into hot air,
black plastic,
drowsy eyes and ears.
There must be cattle
nearby
somewhere;
coyote and armadillo
patrol the black top,
crossing and lazing,
tiny flyblown specks
by the vast retreating
land.