| Ashberries: Letters |
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1. Outside, in a country with no word for outside, they cluster on trees, red bunches. I looked up ryabina, found mountain ash. No mountains here, just these berries cradled in yellow leaves. When I rise, you fall asleep. We barely know each other, you said on the phone last night. Today, sun brushes the wall like an empty canvas, voices from outside drift into this room. I can't translate—my words, frostbitten fingers. I tell no one, how your hands ghost over my back, letters I hold. 2. Reading children's stories by Tolstoy, Alyosha traces his index over the alphabet his mouth so easily unlocks. Every happy word resembles every other, every unhappy word's unhappy in its own way. Like apartments at dusk. Having taken a different street from the station, I was lost in minutes. How to say, where's the street like this, not this? Keys I'd cut for years coaxed open no pursed lips. How to say, blind terror? Sprint, lungburn, useless tongue? How say thank you, muscular Soviet worker, fading on billboard, for pointing me the way? 3. Alyosha and I climbed trees to pick berries, leaves almost as red. On ladders, we scattered half on the ground, playing who could get them down the other's shirt without their knowing. Morning, the family gone, I ground the berries to skin, sugared sour juices twice. Even in tea they burned. In the yard, leafpiles of fire. Cigarettes between teeth, the old dvorniks rake, scratch the earth, try to rid it of some persistent itch. I turn the dial, it drags my finger back. When the phone at last connects to you, I hear only my own voice, crackle of the line. The rakes scratch, flames hiss and tower. 4. This morning, the trees bare. Ashberries on long black branches. Winter. My teacher says they sweeten with frost, each snow a sugar. Each day's dark grows darker, and streets go still, widen, like ice over lakes, and words come slow to every chapped mouth, not just my own, having downed a little vodka and then some tea. Tomorrow I'll bend down branches, brittle with cold, pluck what I can't yet name, then jar the pulp and save the stones. What to say? Love, I live for the letters I must wait to open. They bear across this land, where I find myself at a loss— each word a wintering seed. |