Today the trees were talking behind my back,
were telling those tales about silence,
how it comes when the leaves are gone,
when the wind doesn’t move around in the sky,
when the snow lies.
I remember how my mother
would stand beside the window
watching for the weather to come right.
I remember horizons,
her skirts bunched in my hands.
I want the trees to tell that other story,
the one that’s murmurous with wind and leaves,
to witness for me in the way I need.
She is old now
and she sways though no wind blows.
I’m having a nightmare. In Russia.
It’s snowing but nobody likes me.
I pulled my body
tight against his.
Everyone likes you.
Especially in Russia.
They didn't. He spat toothpaste.
I went back, they still didn't like me.
I was searching the drawer
for two socks the same.
Outside the window,
the first frost of Autumn.
The Editor of the Premier Journal of Moldova
In Switzerland, we’re international.
We speak at dinner of ex-Soviet countries.
Of the state they're in.
We toss the ball, discussing the solution.
Someone finally turns and asks her.
The table pauses
and she makes the wait run on.
On doit partir.
She thinks about this seriously.
Oui. Tout le monde.
She has that blackened Soviet sense of humour.