YOUTH WASTED ON THE YOUNG BUT NOTALGIA IS THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.

Russia

Her skin is snow white
With a hint of red from an occasional day in the sun
She longs to be naked
Like her soul when washed clean through confession

Her face is eternally young
One side is veiled by a shadow and a strand of hair
The other is intentionally left exposed
There’s a secret she keeps yet wants to share

Her hands rest on her head
As if bound by an invisible string
Content and defiant
Waiting for love to untie them

Her fingers are calloused from work
Fingernails are chipped and bitten short
They scratch an itch that isn’t there
A nervous habit from years of boredom

Her eyes are like mirrors in a mirror
Repeating a fond memory and revealing an old soul
I see in them the reflection of my desire
She stares back at me with nonchalance

Her lips are slightly cracked
Dressed with yesterday’s lipstick
They form an emerging smile
That never completes

Her mouth is partially open
Curious to taste the forbidden fruit
Tongue caresses the roof of her mouth
Teeth ready to bite the head of the serpent

Her neck is ticklish
Where she likes to be kissed
She is superstitious
And will never tell you what she wants

Her chest guards a cross necklace
That dangles between her two small breasts
Fashioned from the side of Christ
She is bone of my bones, flesh of my flesh

Her belly is flat yet full
Pregnant with fairy tales and childish dreams
Aching for what previously died inside her
On Pascha she anxiously waits outside the tomb

Her legs are slender but strong
Falling from her hips like a hard rain
Immersed like a second baptism
The ground beneath her feet is holy

Her movements are subtle but deliberate
Bold yet noticeably shy
She is the icon of bravery and innocence
Fidelity and divine life

Her words are few
And come in the form of gifts
I pause and smile
As she struggles to translate her thoughts into English

She is both mistress and spouse
True love and lover
Muse and masterpiece
Sister and holy mother



16 April 2019
9:13 AM