Aubade with Russian Tearoom
Sweetheart, our last day you woke with a nightmare in your mouth, clamped down to sever
conjuring three new teeth, and bit your tongue instead, shared the saltless blood with me.
count that spring of snakes, of sparrows that watched our descent, of the way our friends
their eyes, unable to watch the murder, their phones on silent, deaf to our desperate death rattle.
knows the distances we traveled, how you exhaled smoke towards the rising sun and told me
crossed your path and translated our future, spoke to you of nesting dolls, balalaikas, white
that would boil over then simmer until our own sorceress would appear with porcelain cups
This is the reason you arrive in my dreams, brittle and starved, your fingernails and hair like
the skin beneath your eyes, a perfect shallow grave, your cigarette tongue my sweetest
you walk through mirrors of tea, smoky and spiced, and shadow me like a desert in the rain.
Beth Gordon received her MFA from American University a long time ago and was not heard from again until 2017 when her poems began to appear in numerous journals including Into the Void, Outlook Springs, Drunk Monkeys, Verity La and After Happy Hour Review. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She is also Poetry Editor of Gone Lawn.