by Brett Rutherford
adapted from Marina Tsvetaeva
Not the lady you thought she was
as she comes out of the narrow aisle
of the nearly-perfect cathedral,
to where the crowds scream for her
in the shadow of the onion-domes —
Freedom! Look at those diamonds
she took from princes and aristocrats.
All will be well, she tells them.
But the chorus was only practicing:
the Liturgy of Requiem is still to come.
Not the lady you thought she was,
she laughs, taps toes to the merry tune
of the Marseillaise, and sings along.
Then, crossing the barricades, the whore
leans her head upon the soldier’s medaled chest.
