1. Melikhovo, 1894
Today, her mind is a place
of waltzing gondolas,
cafés of gleaming men—
this young woman
on a white iron bench, in the shade
of a shuttered house. Dear Masha,
she reads, The sky is overcast,
and Italy without sunshine
is like a person in a mask.
Here the apricot trees insist
a tangle of leaves and swollen fruit
over everything: fat cabbages
and awkward cucumbers,
the ducks' ridiculous chatter.
Her skirts feel heavy, anchored.
She lets the letter fall
and a limp wind makes it travel.
In her brother's room, barely opened
or touched, in the armoire, flannel
and woolen suits obediently wait.
On his desk, layers of undusted books
seem almost to be sleeping.
At night, Maria Pavlovna
creeps in, turns down the bed.
In the dream, she is balancing
on a ship's rain-slapped prow.
Ahead the Volga bulges, gray
as someone near death.
Dim plains of ice
float in her wake
like undiscovered countries.
When she squints, they disappear.
2. Moscow, 1912
Years ago the letters
stopped suddenly. Loudly.
Thinner, in pale winter dress
she stands in her classroom before a map
of Europe outlined in primary colors,
the dense mass of Russia
corporeal, stationary. She points
to the poised boot of Italy—
what was it she wanted to say?
While rows of girls lift
their unlined faces,
trying hard to see.
