Susan Smith Nash
Cool summer rain in St. Petersburg,
moist hopes clinging to legs like a “chick flick”
that sensitized state
lasting only long enough to be aware that,
yes, something else is possible.
Summer on the edge of a canal to the Neva River
smells of infinitude and continuity,
their smooth waters like walls erected by the mind
no longer attracted to metonymy –
Only the concrete will suffice.
A leg smoothed down with oils;
a sandal sherbet-bright;
cut-out patent flowers pushing into the toes;
an amber pump, subtle in spite of itself;
the gold-leaf icons of the orthodox church
glittering like beads and shared needles.
New Russia, old Russia?
A slender leg,
terminating in thin straps
an impossible heel; or,
a narrow foot,
cloaked in modest leather?
the motion of legs,
an outrageous dream lasting only long enough
to be aware that “awake”
is merely one of many states.
Today I buy colored stones
as if they were amber
or the past reborn.