Stripped delicate against the rocks
melting snow into black of Edzhigansk,
hair like stink draped upon her shoulders
white tops to casades of snow that won't

the edge of a cliff where the boar lays in wait
and she with her naked bow,
among the shaman souls of Sibera awake from hibernation,
she is but a vengence of Spring
with once buxom shape and pink magnolias for eyes,
fair-weather in retreat,
a resurrection of a warm breath that lay her out,
spine against the sand,
cheek up to the sun.

There is the end of a winter and her sallow eyes
fixed in prime,
chipped teeth rotting at their gum-beds
postured only to bite a withered lip
and tear into a once-doll's flesh,
back muscles flexed and aching--

a hundred years is not too long to wait.

05/10/2010

Posted on 05/10/2010
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