Russian woman in a dusty textbook,
I am reading your biography —
a paragraph in the middle
of a history book —
the part where words
drown everything
into something that happened
sometime somewhere.

Your name was Karenina
and I wonder
what your favorite story was.
Your life was so familiar to me
it was almost in English.

Your husband must’ve been
an Igor with the scent of the train
and vodka. You must’ve made
sweet Cyrilic love with your tongues
and your genitals now
just between the lines
of some massacre in an unread book
in 1792. Or is it just me?

I believe everything is a story
about love. My human concern
concerns me too much. History
becomes my story. This poem
my biography. And the reader decides

who I fucked and when, how.
The gritty details of it hidden
between these words. Look,
a flower. This means something.
I can’t tell you what.
Just smile, let me be bigger
than I was.

I am wishing for snow now.
Just a bit. Some weather. Some clue.
A place where I can tell you
about death and its slow dances
with distance and its unspoken lies
without telling you.

2 thoughts on “Biography

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