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oblivion
with white whiskers of mold,
turned back a layer of wet,
sticky straw, and then a layer
of rotted currant leaves.
The barrel was ful l of
pickled apples of a silvery
moonlit yellow, their infant-
like wrinkles making them
look like newborn planets;
I stepped back, the vat of
apples emitted a dull light,
the glow of a long-past
summer; the light dissolved
the swamp darkness that I
had dragged into the building,
and delicately, tenderly lit the
edge of her face, and I saw
that my hostess was much
older than I first thought;
morning—the morning had
come and for a second I
thought I was a traveler who
found shelter with a hermit
goddess guarding the apple
planets, keeping them far
from people, and if she were
to give me an apple I would
become someone I never
even thought I could be.
The apples did not promise
strength or eternal youth—
but only a happy passion for
life; they smelled of hops
without the crudeness of
hops, clean, sharp, fresh,
and my lips were anticipating
their cool, sparkling, acidic
flavor.
I told the old men that
I would not chop down
the trees and promised to
gather drif twood by the
river; then they said, cut
our hair, and the fisherman
handed me scissors, just like
the ones on the wall at the
dacha when Grandfather
II suggested cutting off all
my hair; darkened, charcoal
colored, and ancient—you
could tell from the shape of
the scissors, which made me
think people in the past cut
fabric differently, touched
objects di f ferently, saw
differently.