Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2011 v10n1
KEITH EKISS

Russian Winters

Yvonne learned to speak Russian after childbirth, her son sucking milk while she practiced the vowels of Pushkin. A language of gutturals, an opposition to winter. Today there’s a threat of rain and too many ripe oranges left unpicked in the yards of Santa Clara, once orchards. I miss the days I never knew, when the houses were trees and the valley in spring looked like winter from the blossoms. Whatever I thought of her must have been partial. Her husband died of cancer. She faced her struggles, of which I knew nothing. I say to myself the years are fleeting . . . someone’s hour is already at hand. These words come back, words she once could’ve taught herself to speak.  end