..................................................................................................................................................
The Poetry Of.
Anita Dahlman...................................................
The Cold Russian
A late winter afternoon in a bookstore
on Capitol Hill, two girls, pale dancers
in their black and pink, grey and chill
from sweating windowpanes in the studio
above the old church around the corner.
Satchels on their shoulders, full of socks,
and lamb’s wool, wet leotards and dusty
slippers, two girls, among books, in the shop.
A thin Russian man, gaunt, intensely
watched the dancers, eavesdropped on
murmurs and soft laughs. “You American
girls, you buy anything you please,” he
disapproved; amusing the girls, especially
one, I was one of them, and I smiled.
We walked through bare woods, the
young man and I, to his home above
the Russian church on 16th Street,
in the garret, a warren of rooms. His
one room, spartan, windowless.
Down the hall, a family pressed close
in a larger room, kitchen, beds,
dining table all together, celebrated
the last day in a string of days, marked
by tall glasses lined up on the table,
cheap Russian vodka.
A small girl in a pleated skirt jumped
up and down on the bed beside the table,
an old man, toothless, grinning, his sly
hand hidden in his pocket, praised
the skirt rising to reveal white
panties on pure white skin.
A tall glass was urged on me, vodka
with a hint of oranges, and sipping it,
my first experience with cheap spirits,
found the floor slanting, roaring
laughter applauded my intolerance.
The young man led me to bed and laid
me beneath a thin and well-worn blanket.
Admonished me as he stripped my feet
bare, “You must not sleep with socks.”
There my memory stops, not knowing
how it was that I woke in my own bed,
and though I returned to the bookstore
on Capitol Hill, on other days after dance
class in the old church around the corner,
the Russian man never returned.
I remember only a dark room, a tall glass,
slanting floors, roars of laughter, a thin
blanket, his cold eyes, and no socks.
Doll House
Yeah, babe, this is all I got: plastic
chair, pine green, and floppy
iron fence setting on the concrete
slabbed front porch.
There’s tiger lilies to come and
rhododendron later on, a U.S. flag
from last July waving bravely
on the mailbox.
Come in, play house and make believe
the patio furniture in the living room
is fun. Blow up the air bed for me,
and lets roll the outdoor carpet in.
On the crooked deck, light the grill
and kill some meat. We’ll listen
to the dog tied up out back,
and for the hoot of the nosy owl.
It’s a simple life, lacking pretension,
but it’s easy enough to make do
with a great deal of less.
There’s room out back for your
beat-up truck and prize chain saw.
With the windows wide open,
the whole world comes in,
when the lights are low
we’ll shoot stars.
Notes
He was a quiet man, behind the scenes,
some would call him passive.
He was impeccable, reserved, rational
and he valued logic.
I used to call him impassive.
He played piano by ear, lovingly
inspired my crazed dances to
wishes upon a star and stormy weather.
His career was his life and all
his children packed up and followed
after him, precise as clockwork,
every two years, marshaled by his
obedient wife.
He instilled quietude, good manners,
cultural hunger, repression of passion,
and an instinct for travel.
He was often away, for weeks,
even years, so much so that he missed
my transition from girl to woman,
and embarrassed me by his comments
when he noted my change.
We embraced carefully, like an inverted 'v',
and talked around the emotional stuff
that girls torment their fathers with.
With cool bemusement, he shook his head
at my tears over trig, unable to understand
how his child could not grasp the logical
beauty of basic math.
He slapped me once, when I kissed
the boy next door, pronouncing no kisses
until I was married, or 21.
(I went on kissing.)
He took my kitten in his car
and drove out to the country,
stopped by the road and left
the kitten there.
The kitten was named after
Orpheus, and found his way home.
Again, my father drove out
to the country, further still,
and this time, Orphie never returned.
After years of polite behavior,
my father learned to become real.
In his old age, I sat at his feet and
listened, I brought him tea and white
toast. I helped him dress and perform
the necessaries.
You haven't lived until you have
put a diaper on your father, or
watched him grimace and writhe
as a rough nurse forces
an aspiration tube down
the hole in his throat.
The last words he ever wrote,
to me:
"End ventilator."
