The seven daggers of the Theotokos
are dancing in the pagan light of spring
as Comrade Lenin sweeps the spinning world
clean of its priestly gold-encrusted grime.
Ashamed to be American, I put
a Russian accent in my little mouth
the way a mime smears makeup on and turns
his face into a Brechtian invention.
The train leaves black stains on the countryside,
and this is how the birches got their spots.
The crooked pear tree, heavy with white flowers,
will birth soft fruit that only squirrels will taste.
Hurrying past a Jewish cemetery
whose only mourners are the hidden snakes
that curl like nooses in the grass, I laugh
like crazy at my stubborn limping shadow.