You were never told, Mother, how old Illya was drunk That last holiday, for five days and nights He stumbled through Petersburg forming A choir of mutes, he dressed them in pink ascension gowns And, then, sold Father's Tirietz stallion so to rent A hall for his Christmas recital: the audience Was rowdy but Illya in his black robes turned on them And gave them that look of his; the hall fell silent And violently he threw his hair to the side and up Went the baton, the recital ended exactly one hour Later when Illya suddenly turned and bowed And his mutes bowed, and what applause and hollering Followed. All of his cronies were there! Illya told us later that he thought the voices Of mutes combine in a sound Like wind passing through big, winter pines. Mother, if for no other reason I regret the war With Japan for, you must now be told, It took the servant, Illya, from us. It was confirmed. He would sit on the rocks by the water and with his stiletto Open clams and pop the raw meats into his mouth And drool and laugh at us children. We hear guns often, now, down near the village. Don't think me a coward, Mother, but it is comfortable Now that I am no longer Czar. I can take pleasure From just a cup of clear water. I hear Illya's choir often. I teach the children about decreasing fractions, that is A lesson best taught by the father. Alexandra conducts the French and singing lessons. Mother, we are again a physical couple. I brush out her hair for her at night. She thinks that we'll be rowing outside Geneva By the spring. I hope she won't be disappointed. Yesterday morning while bread was frying In one corner, she in another washed all of her legs Right in front of the children. I think We became sad at her beauty. She has a purple bruise On an ankle. Like Illya I made her chew on mint. Our Christmas will be in this excellent barn. The guards flirt with your granddaughters and I see... I see nothing wrong with it. Your little one, who is Now a woman, made one soldier pose for her, she did Him in charcoal, but as a bold nude. He was Such an obvious virgin about it; he was wonderful! Today, that same young man found us an enormous azure And pearl samovar. Once, he called me Great Father And got confused. He refused to let me touch him. I know they keep your letters from us. But, Mother, The day they finally put them in my hands I'll know that possessing them I am condemned And possibly even my wife, and my children. We will drink mint tea this evening. Will each of us be increased by death? With fractions as the bottom integer gets bigger, Mother, it Represents less. That's the feeling I have about This letter. I am at your request, The Czar. And I am Nicholas.
Norman Dubie - 1945-
Of Politics, & Art
—for Allen Here, on the farthest point of the peninsula The winter storm Off the Atlantic shook the schoolhouse. Mrs. Whitimore, dying Of tuberculosis, said it would be after dark Before the snowplow and bus would reach us. She read to us from Melville. How in an almost calamitous moment Of sea hunting Some men in an open boat suddenly found themselves At the still and protected center Of a great herd of whales Where all the females floated on their sides While their young nursed there. The cold frightened whalers Just stared into what they allowed Was the ecstatic lapidary pond of a nursing cow's One visible eyeball. And they were at peace with themselves. Today I listened to a woman say That Melville might Be taught in the next decade. Another woman asked, "And why not?" The first responded, "Because there are No women in his one novel." And Mrs. Whitimore was now reading from the Psalms. Coughing into her handkerchief. Snow above the windows. There was a blue light on her face, breasts and arms. Sometimes a whole civilization can be dying Peacefully in one young woman, in a small heated room With thirty children Rapt, confident and listening to the pure God rendering voice of a storm.