ARGOS MACCALLUM
Tell me when the light turns green
street corner on a snowy day
oldsmobiles studebakers fords
crisscrossing four different ways
my father waits on the curb
with a yule tree on his shoulders
myself standing four years old at his side
mittens with strings tied to the collar
the swirl of small town sounds
stitched with blinking signs shivers me
under colossal buildings and grey sky
tell me when the light turns green
my father commands from inside the tree
a sudden iron urgency welled inside me
and swept me to the province of responsibility
electrifying my innards
I locked onto that box with three colors
intent on my mission with new found strength
entering a new land requiring rigorous discernment
green I shouted jumping and pointing
my heart floating above my head
from my captain came
the stentorian command to cross
and I marched into the future
guiding my father and the tree
flooded with love
latina
dark figure with hand upraised
appears in the middle the road
on a moonless night
materializing out of vapor
I yank my truck sideways
in an eternity of a second
skidding in adrenalin
thwarting the angel of death
young latina in a dark parka
rimmed with a halo of dirty fur
climbs in the passenger seat
out of the flowing cold
incongruously unruffled
she asks to see my money
she needs cigarettes
stashes my hamilton in her parka
sends me into the gas station
for marlboro red and a bic
charged to my card
charged to my conscience
this angel has no id
no age or distinguishing feature
just bottomless brown eyes
and a commanding helplessness
a sweet nicotine fuzzy warmth
as we sail back through city lights
to a hostel for the homeless
whose doors may be shut
I wait in my patient truck
for a few and then slip away
back into the wild of night
a young latina burning on my retina
Yevgeny
Your Siberian timber limbs
stretch from your torso of river
sway in the taiga wind of your voice
which rolls along the boat of your mouth
the people of the world on the deck of your tongue
hunched square in our chairs
elbows locked on knees
my hand locked in yours
-- no, the dirt won't wash
from my nails either--
I wander lost in the forest of your eyes
old fighter with decades of scars tears and fractured ribs
cosmonaut of the moon of the heart
you make me tremble lest I fall
into one of your cavernous footsteps
without a rope or ladder
we each have loved dozens of women
but one in common so stab me in your dreams
let red color the sky in sunrise
above the village of the world
I'll steal an ember of your impudence
anyway and call myself your little brother
and if you come back this way
I'll have the missing pig tethered
and ready for the knife
we'll toast and tell tales of men
under the whale-bone carousel of the night
* Yevgeny Yevtushenko (Russian poet 1933-2017)