Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Carl Boon

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.

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