Venichka, the Heavenly Angels are laughing
and your red-haired witch
is here, ever present as the
December fog that's covering the steeple crosses
in soft-focus, weakening lingering pain.
Venichka, the devil rides the Moscow train,
and your red-haired witch
waits at the station with the alcoholics,
passing around Putinka and Zhiguluvski.
She said she doesn't mind the drowning,
waking is the problem.
Venichka, God only speaks when in pain
and your red-haired witch
sits with the begging grannies on the street,
fingering her crucifix, telling anyone
she is like the compassion
before death and springtime love,
smiling, crying, laughing.
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