Michael M. Weinstein

*After the poem of the same name by Alexander Vvedensky* I’m sad I’m not a beast



asprint down some blue lane



whispering confidences to my



 



       self : let’s wait a little



       we’ll go walk in the woods with you



       to gawk at the paltry leaves



 



I wish I were a star



running seeking that one nest



to drown in – none



could hear that star making creakings



to embolden the silence of fish



 



       I have a complaint



       : I’m not a rug , nor a hydrangea



 



I’m sad I’m not a roof



falling – little by little – in



for whom death is only a moment



wet with rain



 



       I dislike that I’m mortal



       I’m sad I’m inexact



 



I’m sad I’m not a chalice



I hate that I’m not pity



I’m not even a copse



that sheathes itself with leaves



 



       It’s hard to be with the minutes



       Who have wasted me so badly



 



       It’s terribly offensive to me



       That I’m visible currently



 



It’s awful to me that I move



not at all like a worm



The worm rips burrows into



the earth and plants conversations



 



       Earth , where are your works



 



the cold worm says to her



and Earth , disposing of the dead



, keeps quiet



 



       ( she knows it’s not like that )



 



I’m scared I have before me



two identical things



I don’t see how they’re different



how each one lives , independent



 



I’m scared I have before me



two identical things



I don’t see how eager they are



to look like one another



 



       We’re sitting with you , wind



       atop this deathly pebble



 



and here , at the tip of the letter



I put down the word *box*



I set *box* in its place



: its substance is thick dough



 



       I don’t like that I’m mortal



       I’m sad I’m inexact



 



       I still have a complaint



       : I’m not a rug , nor a hydrangea



 



we’ll go walk in the woods with you



to gawk at the paltry leaves . . .



I’m sad that on those leaves



I won’t see the unnoticed words



 



       called : instance , called : immortality



       called : view from the beginning



 



I’m scared I’m not an eagle



I’m sad I’m not a seed



The worm crawls over all



He bears monotony



 



I’m scared that I’m unknown



I’m sorry I’m not flame

The cosmonaut returned to Earth said moonshine



was what he’d missed, and wurst. He described



space: weightlessness feels nice, there is plenty



of candy stuffed in the hatch-flap, et cetera



and the kids think you’re a hero. You distract



yourself with streets named after you, men in stiff-brimmed hats



glinting their teeth and their brass buttons, jangling your hand…



 



those thoughts are off the record. Asleep on the ceiling



of someone’s utopian dream, the poster toddlers warble



encouragements from rosebud mouths: Glory



To Breastmilk, To the Countryside Electrified, To War



Bonds and Corn and the bravery of slow



animals who have no choice. Glory to your mom



and the soldier who opened her like a fat clutch



 



and closed her up again, tenderly



and left for the front before you weaseled your



wet red way out. The pipes of your *Stalinka*



are still leaking sour water from the birthmark spreading



its tea-colored mold across the white. Your life



will be busy and short and in the end you’ll lose



sensation in your legs. Two hundred million friends



will weep as newscasters gasp platitudes



 



in the imperial tongue. The birch trees creak and sway,



creak and sway above the grove where the young



pioneers of tomorrow will carry your corpse



carnations, whistling The Motherland Hears,



The Motherland Knows… Your last thought: Korolyov



patting the pure white fuselage lovingly, grinning,



“The bastards, they’re recording everything.”



 



 



*  Stalinka: the colloquial name for a style of apartment building constructed in the Soviet Union



between roughly 1935 and 1960.



** Korolyov: Sergei Pavlovich Korolyov (1907-1966), lead Soviet rocket engineer and designer



of the Sputnik and Vostok spacecraft in the U.S.-U.S.S.R. Space Race in the 1950s and 60s.