russian rouletting

by jamie criss

and what could be said?

or what could be heard?

through thin as paper walls,

icy sheets of snow, dark 

distances, blanketed 

telephone receivers with 

no end. staring blankly

at computer screens,

empty; or quite filled

with people staring. dirty 

bedsheets, open books,

cold foggy early morn

air and the air. stolen

bracelets, colored fingertips,

the writing on my arm,

my hand cursing my mouth

and the circled students

saying first impressions

with hats and glasses;

campuses. green jacketed

livres of love poems with 

cute phrases and "oh i miss

thee." come with me. 

internet chats and stifled 

speaking, breathing heavily,

anticipation, waiting,

balancing, concentration,

meditation, mindfully

praying. legs bent, hands to 

heart and sweating.

russian orthodox wedding and

russian rouletting. 

cold and hot fever; february 

receiver. betty friedan sits on 

the bedside table saying,

solitude.

tiny moving pictures, projections

on a wall. blonde headed children

and memories flashing; blinking,

in super eight millimeter.

packing up portraits, moving 

out of the house on camden road.

the moon coming in my window,

like a good luck charm.

laying and swaying; the void.

i saw the music, like layers of

lace on top of each other.

kneeling by tree stumps,

with bundles of white alysum, 

scuffing my feet, wishing not

to be seen. oh, holy empires,

oh, holy wonders. dark eyes,

configures, confinement

and ultimately freedom.

doing things slowly, opening

lockets, reaching hands out 

of pockets. lemonade stand 

pictures, unfocused, 

remembering home; thyself.

and ultimately freedom.

kool-aid and kisses, sparkles,

scuffed knees and hold me.

collecting small paychecks and

watching time come coolly for

ultimately freedom.