Good Woman

Alexei, Alexei dear, good-
ness vile.
Dear Alexei, why,
we’ve a son.
Autumn-winter, dear,
where’ve they gone?
Alexi Alexivich,
it’s July again.

As steam hisses, shoot
fills up the eyes,
as ice thaws
in the summer sun,
as cities appear
and fall behind,
I am riding, riding, dear,
a wild horse.

The veil, the veil, Alexie,
of knowing not
what’s good, what’s bad,
in whose land?
What’s harm, what’s sin, what is love?
Who hasn’t loved yet
in Moscow-Milan?

It’s a dilemma —
or is it not:
what a heart wants,
and wants it bad?
A moribund heart,
a housebound heart;
I am Scherzo, Alexei,
I am Majorca Dance.

The opera star —
the chase of a rake.
Such love a love a’ways
wants to be.
A flawless love,
an ageless love.
Boundless, careless
till eternity.

But who can have it, dear,
not pay the price?
Can we have it, Alexie,
have it all?
Neither you, dear,
nor I can.
You are a coward,
I bear other reasons.

For my hopes are as faint
as are the stars.
I am galloping, galloping
in a starless night.
What’s living
if not in searing pain?
Searing, searing
is my flight.

Is it envy, Alexie,
or a mother’s guilt?
Is it the indifference
of Narcissus?
Am I Echo, Ophelia,
the sunk woman?
Am I Hera – how ever so
suspicious!

But when this old mare
breaks her spine;
aimless, loveless,
smeared and stained;
bring her fondly back
in an oak coffin;
in a black, whistling
James Watt train.