Babushka

Written on 02/08/2023

Babushka

Once again,

I take you home, and you tell me

how the world would be yours

if your knees didn’t ache and your hands didn’t shake

without a cigarette.

And you lead me to your nest

with your blankets, and your trinkets,

and whatever’s left of the you before

and I ask about the spoon rings crusting on your wall,

how clearly they were made for younger hands than yours.

You say that you don’t mind, It’s simply that

they don’t make them like they used to,

and you’re rather fond of the way they rust.

Again, you don’t mind

and again, I ask why

and you blush because

I remind you so much

of you back then:

back when you just felt old

instead of actually being old

and forgotten.

I scrummage through my back pockets for sympathy

and that bothers you

since this was exactly what you’d asked for

and just what you deserved

But I see you beneath your shells:

I see the girl barefoot on the riverbed,

hunting for bugs,

longing for hugs

and cherishing pain:

the good kind of pain

that proves you are still living.

You’ve made yourself nesting doll,

welted shut with history

that must never see tomorrow, so you say

but today I kissed you,

and found the river speaking for itself.