They Called Them ‘Blue’
They called them ‘blue’ and mentioned them in whispers,
as if they represented a sinister cult.
This couple lived in a bohemian slum,
where most Moldovan gays rented cheap rooms.
I had never been there
until a schoolmate from that neighborhood
took me to check them out. Putting out our cigarettes,
we climbed the stairs to the top floor.
A gray haired man opened the door,
looking like a monk in a monumental bathrobe.
He made us Turkish coffee and scratched his tonsure:
‘Where shall I put this?’ I realized
that their place had no furniture except for a bookcase.
Sergey and was a book binder and restorer of rare books
at a local history archive. He had learned his trade in jail,
doing time for homosexuality. Books were all he had.
The room's large square window offered
a majestic view of Kishinev slums. In the kitchen,
a tape recorder played non-stop, a guitar and a violin
vying with each other. Czech jazz, he explained,
anticipating my question.
Then his friend arrived, a young underground artist
with an enormous watermelon in his arms.
‘I stood in a line for a damn hour,’
he cursed, ‘This thing had better be ripe,
or I'll drop it out the window!’
The watermelon soon revealed its green interiors.
We ate it with spoons, listening to the music,
which I liked. I still remember the watery taste,
the many seeds that were left when the rest was gone.
Christmas
A dry northern wind at Christmas
brings clouds of seagulls to Cambridge,
landing them at 10 A.M.
upon Harvard's stadium.
I am dishonest,
I steal my way in to run here
once in a while without authorization,
but right now I'm just passing by.
Tall bleachers to my right
across the hollow amphitheater of winter
seem ready to surrender
to snow, but there is none.
A man in a greasy Santa uniform
ambles from the direction of Mt. Auburn Cemetery
with an empty cigar box in his hands.
He sets it down on the curbstone.
‘Free. Take anything you need,’
reads the handwritten inscription
in fat purple highlighter.
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