It made me feel small, like a husband,
and I never married, never owned

a table worth turning over, china
worth shattering, linen worth blood

from the cut hand I sucked and cursed
and wrapped in a torn shirt, in a pocket.

Can't they make it new again, those bees,
those communist women at their weaving?

It was only the long lines, the slow,
enforced pace, solemnity, cold white glitter;

I was only too proud to eat cold history,
to stand in the breadlines at the tomb;

I only declined the feast in the mausoleum
as Yesenin did, who wrote his regrets in blood.