I did not weave the linen where you lie;
I did not gather flax nor spin this thread,
but I will sew the sheet up and I’ll tie
a different knot to keep you in my bed.
And I will wash your hands and your cold feet
as once I washed the shirt upon your back;
And I will make the stitches small and neat
that mend you in this shroud, your sleeping-sack.
I’ll sing to you a lullaby of screams;
I’ll cry ochón instead of tura’lu
to send you on your way into the dreams
you dream without me, and I, without you.
I wear the cloth you taught me how to weave:
it’s women’s work to sew, to mend, to grieve.
“They are the lucky ones, to be living now, hey?” The Captain of the Letat’ Nefrita Yaschcheritsa said again when the last of the prisoners had been herded away from the maindeck and into the belly of the gondola. Kolya nodded, not because he agreed but because it was what one did when the Captain had had a bottle, and this was Chernenko’s second today. Continue reading