Needle to thread. Scythe to wheat. Foot to pedal. Hammer and
sickle. Work, work, work. She has three sisters. At dusk she drinks tea.
From the silver belly of a samovar. In the dark she drinks vodka. She
takes a lover who smells of fresh meat and the pines. The hunt is on
him, like his tongue on the crest of her sex. Like the little forest of
white down on her breasts. On the nape of her neck. A hunger
grows. Grows inside her. Note: She is not hungry for him. He is a
symptom of that hunger. An empty cup she could keep replenishing. A
clue: bread crust, apple core, chicken bone. Wishbone. Knowing three
languages is a useless luxury in this town. A sort of unwanted
appendage. A sixth finger. She canít remember the Italian for
window. She climbs the ceilings. The water spouts. She eats
strawberries, using her lips like a blind girl uses her fingers. Little
match girl. Little lamb. Little shoe. Black boot. Achoo. A little red
wine? Red Riding Hood. All the better to see you with. To read you
with, my dear. Follow. Over the river. Through the woods. To the sea.
Knees deep in the salty water. To the island of Crete. To Tunis. To
Florence. To Russia. To Moscow. Finally. Finally, you say, to Moscow.
She will arrive on that page. That splendid stage of trajectory. Of
destiny. Destination. She is splendid. Sexy. Oh baby. She is Little
Miss Adjective. She will wear her best black dress. Sings a soft song
when she walks. Syllables of silk, of organza and tulle say hush, we
are almost at "The End." She wears a veil of Swiss lace. Real, they said
about the lace she was wearing. Little accents, little umlauts, tiny
apostrophes like snowflakes sting her cheeks. She does not blush.
She makes the sign of the cross. She makes a date. With hunger.
With the great black cloak of a train. But this time she doesnít lie
down. She refuses to make her bed. To spill her blood like children.
She doesnít set herself on fire. She wonít sign her name or spell you
her secrets. She wonít uncross her legs. She opens her mouth
instead. She opens her mouth and she. She eats. She eats it all:
porters, nannies with babies, the tracks, the coal, the iron, the ore. She
dines for pages, for chapters. Eating paper, drinking the sweet black
ink, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. Then she eats her best black
dress and so she is naked. And so she is huge. And it is you, it is you
she is holding like an open book, well-loved, in her hands.