Katherine Young
TRAVEL OVERLAND
Odd rendering of pleasure, no more than
the feel of strange pavement beneath the feet--
no broader than crack-spined stairs dared to ogle
Brahma's sacred bull, no finer than
middling-good table wine uncorked in
a trattoria festooned with plastic
vines--requiring no language or faith, no
companion but the map and a vague grasp
of legend to compel one's interest.
Just the willingness to suspend disbelief,
the firm and mystic certainty that none
has passed this way before--whether in
monsoon, the velvet season, or the time
of naked ice--none but this self, whose
understanding of things hovers gossamer
and exquisite on dragonfly wings, just
out of focus, just out of reach . . . .
DRIVING THE M8
Russia, 1996
There are bandits on this road, though only
rarely do they lurk beneath forest's eave
where the road narrows here at the edge of
Vladimir oblast'. They prefer, instead,
to broker the trade in towels, Mickey
Mouse waving gamely from every clothesline
for twenty miles past Sergeyev-Posad.
They patrol the cars parked by the roadside,
hoods weighted down with enamel pans or
curtains or crystal chandeliers, payment
in kind for work not worth doing, sell it
or starve. They count out their cut from the jars
of fresh pickles, the pails of potatoes,
the buckets of cut daisies clustering
at the feet of an—invariably—
empty stool that leans against a gate in
a hamlet made up of a dozen or so
knock-kneed cottages. All the cottages
sag in unison towards the church, whose star-
speckled dome has split in two.
STARS WITH BLAZING HAIR
I've watched them up there, flaming across the sky
twirling on orbits still unlearned, arcing
wheeling, scattering wild sparks that light
up the night, forming constellations
never seen before by mortals beneath.
Even the ones who flicker, flame out
leave trails of ash that linger in the sky
stinging to tears our rapt, upturned eyes.
LAST FLIGHT OF THE GYPSY KING
Tomsk Airport, Siberia
(for Elizabeth Miles)
Gypsies' cries engulf the hall;
their black-eyed king has died too young.
“An overdose,” the desk clerk says
he shakes his head, tearing the tickets
with inky fingers. The gypsy king
requires a ticket, too, his body
charged as cargo, counted with
the crates, hand-tagged for destination.
Last night I danced with the gypsy king;
we danced, forgetting everything
his arms around me strong and warm
his kinglets sleeping back at home.
In the ladies' lounge, sleek tourists check
their makeup in the mirrors, glancing
sideways at a gypsy girl
who lifts her hem to wipe wet eyes.
They clutch their handbags to their sides
fearing the gypsies' light-fingered ways:
peddlers of dross, crocodile tears
traffickers in our secret dreams.
Last night I drank with the gypsy king.
He offered me pearls and precious things.
We drank to friendship, love, and art;
he gave me dewdrops from his heart.
The gypsies mill around the gate,
jostling against the passengers—
they tear their hair, cling to one
another. The dead king's children
dressed in velvet, pass hand to hand
like glass-eyed dolls. Their mother wails
as if her heart might break. As if
no one had ever died before.
Last night I lay with the gypsy king
his hands upon me trembling.
We lay, and loved, until the dawn
until his wife came calling, calling.
Katherine E. Young's poems have appeared most recently in The Iowa Review (where she is a three-time finalist for the Iowa Award), Southern Poetry Review, Shenandoah, and The Carolina Quarterly. She is a three-time semifinalist for the "Discovery"/The Nation award, and her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
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