MERRIDAWN DUCKLER

THE NIGHT WOLVES OF RUSSIA

are brando-like, bandit-like
Russian bikers,
reported on the radio
but I have to cut off the idiot
driving in front of me so I miss the gist
of their complaint
concerning Ukraine, which a Russian taught me
never to call the Ukraine,
as if it was a border he sneered
with his remarkably wolf-like teeth, and pale skull
perfect for hanging over a fireplace.
“Never!” he shouted
in the loud bar named
after a U2 album
where, since it was impossible to sleep
but easy to drink
we spent each night;
a dump where first a guy grabbed my butt
and then a girl grabbed my butt, so I was well supported.
By now the radio show had moved on
and I lost the night wolves,
though I picture them cruising
inside the vast, block long
department store in St. Petersburg
where stone-cold women prevented me
from buying amber, a red source of infinite light,
a well of tears from the chained daughters,
a fossil of resin preserved before any country had borders,
though there was never a time before wolves.