228 292
Carl Boon
228
On a night of love-making
twenty years ago, a girl
told me Lermontov
could only sleep
in the Caucuses,
that Moscow’s smoke
made his eyes bleed,
that he stayed awake a week
in Saint Petersburg
remembering Pushkin.
But I think she was lying,
and I lied, too, when I told her
I’d love her forever,
that I’d carry her close
on every journey, her smell,
and how she twirled her hair.
I hope she’s forgotten me,
but I remember Lermontov
on her bedstand
beside her fierce green eyes.