Meditations on dear Petrov Susan Tepper
Set in 19th Century Russia during a time of war
Grace You instruct me to go to the church. Defy the innocents. Rub holy water on my breasts. Put my lips to the lips of God. I stand before you staring at your mouth. Unable to speak. This journey, dear Petrov, will not be my saving grace. Salvation coming from the rocks and streams. The white birch forest. The mountain always in view. Protective. Its great shadow veils the house and what I most fear. Over top the guns fire. I try enduring that sound. Will I outlive the guns and cannon fire. A soldier you have no answer. A soldier coated in the stench of war. Though I brushed your coat and scrubbed your boots ‘til my hands ached. My sink a font. I bow to what my sink must endure. The birds come back each spring with a troubling regularity. They have the freedom to choose while I do not. I have few freedoms. Which hat to wear. Whether to darn my cloak or go ragged. The saints went ragged I say. Causing you to laugh considerably. Loud and bellowing. Crashing. Knocking your whisky over. I cover my ears and move toward the kitchen. Looking out its one smudged window. Singing a soft prayer: O black birds of Russia I know it isn’t true, the rage still burns bright in you.
Common Martyrs have been sacrificed in the great paintings. Room after room framed glittering gold. Splashes of red and a worried sky. The gleaming blade, dear Petrov. While crows poised in trees, mourners knelt on the ground in prayer. I saw the pictures as a child. Gripping my father’s hand. In the great city where the church spires shine golden too. Even without a shining sun. Our hands gloved and a carriage with a top cover and sides. Brilliant black. Blankets over our laps. Unlike my open trap to which I tether my horse. Oh beloved creature. I am happy to share my potatoes. Your tongue rolls rough against my palm. After feeding I take to your back once more. Riding slowly through this house. A clip clop. Each room the sea changing color. Green to blue to dullest gray. Deplorable ruin. Down to the cellars where rough beams hang low. You know to duck your sweeping head. This trick I have learnt from you. My friend of a thousand seasons. One common potato. Clutching your neck I promise you one more.
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