Osichka

Osichka

Kristen Faulkner

They sow the wind, and reap the whirlwind.
—Hosea

Never dreamed of rasputitsa, these boots of anteater skin;
nor of hummingbird punch do a dacha’s eaves.
The rebel flag at full-mast is forgotten, the Christmas tablecloth
is right at last, under a prophet’s elbows in red flannel.
Brat’s credits roll to that cruel saxophone as he writes
stoic in the kitchen light, my Osichka . . .

Maestro, ¿cómo se dice “first love”?

From a land, I hear, of black tulips and steel hyacinths -
his tanline suppedaneous - he said, “Give arm,” and
with a suffix undressed me. On my back I pondered white vineyards,
Daddy’s bass, a tomboy’s tenor, the grapes evergreen
with this lady and her ermine of the terracotta rooftop
ever moongazing, as I write to enjealous the passing thunder:

Liebe, liebe, das befriedigt meine Triebe—

what, what—to eavesdrop a phone call in a dulcería?
To shoo flies with exotic newspaper, Osichka, but your blue
hunts at dawn and haunts the dusk at Agathon’s door—oh,
wild buttercup, slurs the fiddle, don’t you bow to frost.
But Frost shook hands with Schultz. Buttercup,
pulling pine needles from her hair, prays:

Gospodi, budet vukra-inye medoviy luna?

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Kristen Faulkner
Poet

Kristen is a poet from Texas. This is her debut published poem.

Photography by Spencer Dowdeswell