Speaking Russian

I’ve thought about the way

you knew Napoleon’s trail to Tilsit.

As if I could pull the amber of your eyes

from the Baltic,

but those saltwater shores

have hold on my double helix,

not yours.

Your origins are

deep winter,

fur hats, and tired physicists.

God, if I could,

I’d know you.

There’s something about the day

you were late for me.

And something about the way

your suits hit just the end of your shoulders,

that’s something.

Your skinny hips

and seemly lips

murmur secrets.

Only, I can’t hear.