Listening To Russian Poetry

The odor of turnips, of seasoned cabbage water - borscht flushed through musing kidneys. Listening to Zhukovsky, Vysotsky, Tyutchev, not comprehending a word of it. Working my way backward through an alphabet that echoes proto-Slavic roots and chugs. Muses that are a gloved slap of love, an aching tooth, a fondness for black-ice words that gnaw wet socks and fingertips. Suspicions wriggle like long dead Popes – the smell of tobacco and damp sheets. A dusting of earth shaken from chilled rhizomes. Words simmer like sleeping Cossacks. Whiffs of green water, grain, and potato, the anguish of bruised beets. A poetry that peels onion, a crop used in the pickling of cucumbers, and other forever preserved romances.