for Yuz Aleshkovsky
The city noise can not be heard,
In Neva tower silence reigns!
– Fëdor Glinka
Silence hangs o’er Neva’s grim tower.
And yet again, its gilding’s slick.
Here comes a woman all alone.
And yet again, she’s up the stick.
The moon’s round face reflects all that,
as sung by endless hosts of poets:
not just the sentry’s bayonet
but many other things with points.
The Admiralty needle glints,
and local anaesthetic seeps,
instantly freezing all it hits –
the place where Russia used to be.
This state of numbness suits them fine:
the aborted foetus on its way,
the aborted father full of wine
who’s been blind drunk since break of day.
Miscarried Christmas soon arrives;
shortage of firs for party mirth.
This land of empty skies and shelves
will not bring anything to birth.
The Summer Garden’s died the death.
Back goes that woman, feeling ill,
with bloodied lips, and out of breath.
The Neva tower is empty still.