Three Poems

Romy Ruukel

Uncle

Surrounded by the Iron Curtain, all things faded faster:

suits slicked at the elbows and especially the knees,

shoes scuffed as though from constant kicking.

You, too, magician of my childhood,

conjuring something from nothing

in the single bare bulb

kitchen-made-do-for-darkroom,

lightened to a negative of yourself -

pale blue pajamas and thin long-fingered hands

folded on the white sheet,

all around you the lush blooms, the industrious Soviet summer.

Rehearsal Night

My mother is all smells and sounds of waiting,

the click click click of distinctly confident

heels in the dark hallway,

the anticipated familiar mix of perfume and cigarette smoke

when I reach for her hand at the crosswalk,

the poised T-shape of them on the small stage

as her partner lifts her up,

and I am in the corner with pencils and a coloring book

forgetting what I’ve been told,

pressing down too hard on the paper.

After She Left for Spain

I woke to find a pomegranate on my doorstep.

Missile or missive?

Red, chambered complexity; a delicate grenade.

Teasing out the kernels of pleasure,

would I remember the sundial of her belly,

the sunset at the horizon of her waist?

Oh, I would move through her as a hand

moves through steam rising from the kettle.

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