To leave everything and go to Moscow!

by Lindsey Trout Hughes

 

In the Russian play, it is my name day
again. Here, girls are birds in a town
that vanishes with little more than a wink.
I am in love with the rehearsing, stupid
lights, stupid bright, spike tape, cold
coffee. I am trying to ache, but someone
is whistling. The gist is that children

are born, love is taxing and persistent. Poverty
is the price of scandal, death will ruin you
almost. Afterward, you can still say
hello to your daughters by stopping the clock
in the living room and ruining the mood of a perfectly
alright birthday party. I understand now: flinging
my arms around your neck Is the only way
to greet you come morning. In this way, we are

rulers of our own small county, a place of crops,
forests, little wars. I play with toys
I am too old for. You make jam, learn
to fiddle. You used to pass me love notes. Now
they’re all titled “On Suffering”. I am thankful
we don’t have horses, that duels are out
of fashion. You’ve forgotten your lines again— ask me
to bring you the coffee. I will look at you, hold
my breath, count to ten, repeat: Moscow
doesn’t exist. Moscow doesn’t exist. Moscow
doesn’t exist.