by Alexei Tsvetkov

without fail our thoughts in these vexing times
are with the emperor lonesome in his icy
palace sunk in his unremitting silence

a spy was trampled at the jasper gate
the eastern garrison has run out of rice
one hears of a decree to round up and
butcher young maidens for the soldiers’ stew
i give it little faith although the neighbor’s
youngest’s been missing two nights in a row

the new servant took off was gone till midnight
came back without his cap reeking of wine
the jurchen are within the walls he says
and at the plaza by the pearl shrine blood
was ankle-deep glistening like a black mirror
he’s been too insolent of late the steward
must be requested to apply the rod
those jurchen are just a ruse for their ilk

a visit from the venerable yi
his brittle sheets of tang calligraphy
obtained from a bookseller for a trifle
trifle indeed but who would want to hurt
a friend i had them fetch some wine and plums
the last of the old stock but it was worth it
never an evening was so full of mirth
on his way back the venerable yi
was torn out of his litter thrushed to death
with canes those jurchen nothing but a ruse

a conflagration this time in the west
the guards will have their work cut out for them
curse the old gown all matted and it’s cold
should have dispatched them to stock up on brushwood

but there’s no one to send and none for sale
how splendid is the moon in the black velvet
of the night sky in the black silk of smoke

looks like the flare is aiming for the palace
from where the stables should be and the harem
i haven’t cleaned my brush the ink is dry
the emperor may be godlike but he feels
the fear we know he is afraid for us
but we alas have hardly any words
left to console him

by Anna Halberstadt

of damaged people
the people
who damage others
who are capable
for the most part
of destruction
and self-destruction.
The moon is still intact
and so is
the blackness of trees
on Washington Square
in the still
of the night.
And
yellow and purple pansies
in the stone vase
are as miraculous
as the new flowers
of each spring
always seem.
We come from a place
where love was extinguished
eliminated
replaced by addiction
to eating each other’s bodies
in lonely rapture
exasperated.
Remember
our amazement
and
how time stood still
when
we first touched?

by Anna Halberstadt

…after all
he did nor enjoy his friends,
especially nymphs,
avoiding him
after the spurned lover
had a nervous breakdown
and lost her voice.
They married, but Echo
did not regain it.
Narcissus began studying
philosophy with Plato
and he had a brief dalliance
with Sappho,
who praised his poem
about admiring his own
gorgeous reflection
in the stream
and being moved
to tears.
Echo was hiding in the kitchen
and the bedroom
decorating the house
with fresh white hyacinths
and crimson roses.
At lavish dinners she made sure
Narcissus was undisturbed
presidingand entertaining their
sophisticated guests
with witty conversations.
She got up to overlook
the dinner preparation
and all she was able to say
was a repetition
of her husband’s last words:
“It is so deep, so deep…eep…eep”
or,
“You can find this in Plato’s Dialogues…logues…logues”

Alexei Parshchikov
translated by Eugene Ostashevsky

In a factory where they make chloramphenicol
cats                              loiter

one—gnarled
like a woodblock: waterlogged, barnacled
another—thin with an elongated tongue—
a fireman’s hook
and the third—huge like a calm
in the Persian Gulf

they roam about the pharmaceutical factory
licking up pills
between plague and cholera
flu and smallpox
hovering among deaths

the cats circumvent all, kings of connivance
and only croaking acquire a skeleton

here a black tom beams, clawing up soil
he sees himself buried in it

and the white—bedraggled by dope
fleecy like feathergrass
soft heart in plumes

the cats surmise they see paradise
and become its supports
as if they were pulling tarpaulin onto themselves
determined to shake down
an apple tree

this paradise beheld

they will step, uniform and discrete
as mechanics along the wing of an airplane
into nothingness

and they’ll let paradise slip from their paws
and dictators will meet them head on
and crush cats with their jackboots

Nero versus the cat
Attila versus the cat
Ivan the Terrible versus the cat
Saint Lawrence versus the cat
Smetana versus the cat
Katz versus the cat
cat versus the cat
yes, a cat’s karate is nothing against statues of dictators.

It’s Just Like That

A betty’s mouth rotates.  The wind’s proof doubles.
Mesmerizing Boeings.  The cyclopic reveries
of stadiums.  And America doubles
over and b/pounces—all are pleased

with how the canyon oscillates like the rudder
of the Flying Dutchman that surfaces
in the brain of a man dragged feet-first up the
staircase of the tower of Moscow State University.