Margarita with the curls in her hair
The way her hair curls will always remind me of Leningrad;
of Lenin himself, stealthy, and cat-like in his tomb.

When she moves it's like fingers twitching,
cylindrical thumbs snapping long, low claps,

movements turning upward
like roots curling skyward from the dry soil,

she stands underneath the silken streetlamps,
mimicking their shape, her skin lathered in wood-smoke.

Perfumed in sighing, I look up, measuring the
shape of the maple leafs, dazzled by how they

shine in the overpowering light. How it
circles the bark of it's long arm, sauntering,

much like Margarita in the evening breeze, the
world turning, mimicking the way she draws her

hips up, then down, like a wave, lazy and cool
in it's meeting with the shore. Like the way her

hair falls all around her face, and only when you
find yourself mesmerized by it does she pull her hand up,

weaving fingers through the thick weightless strands,
pulling it away so hard that her cheek-bones fan out

across her face. Her bones are chiseled in sexuality;
the kind that lingers long before, and after you take her

in your arms and suck the blood from her body. The kind
that stays with you long after you have idealized the shape

of her face. She laughs, crowing in Russian, telling me
how she hates the Ukraine, how nothing good ever came

from there, and I should stay away. She says that the
night is her lover, and idolatry is the first betrayal of true love,

like a muse, mixed up in malcontent and self-loathing,.