SOLZHENITSYN’S BEARD
Breathing free.
I hear in lower case.
Siberia.
My mattress bare planks, rough hewn.
Do not get any closer.
Or my nightmare may end.
Understand?
You sound like one of those tortured Russian poets.
I like that you are not in love with me yet.
That’s Tsvetaeva, right?
I knew I fancied you.
Then why didn’t you pick up last night?
I was hiding all my secrets.
I’m not the secret police.
Your eyes are too pretty to see me.
Oh...that was so smooth.
I’m a love-starved lothario it seems.
Are you spreading yourself across the land?
I don’t leave the room.
Brodsky?
Yes, close enough.
Then I’ll come to you.
I’ll see you Friday night.
Until Friday, then.
The secret to cooking a good omelet is low heat. Especially for two.
Eggs. Four. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Bowl. Salt. Milk. Two tablespoons. Whisk.
Nonstick skillet. Heat. Medium. Butter. Tablespoon. One. Melt. Swirl.
Eggs. Add.
Pause. Spatula. Stir. Vigorously.
Skillet. Angle. 45. Degree. Fold. Fold. Fold.
Warm plate. Salt. Tarragon. Serve.
It looks like a business letter.
It’s more personal than that.
A love letter?
A wondrous moment to recall.
Pushkin?
No, that’s me.
Outside I hear the bullfrogs serenading Spring in upper case. A cascading chirping from the glittering pond, near the corral, and the horses stir for a moment. The sun, too, rising, thawing.
There must be millions of them.
Or maybe just one.