The Russian

Always grumbling over small anthills,

 anteaters in the Andes Mountains could do no more with what you’ve given.

 Rooting around in the dirt

 muddling with unimportant earthly matters.

 No less than seven men could lift your enormous baggage

over their heads

 like those holding objects in caves

casting shadows.

 Your eyes constantly holding onto pain and discomfort

longing for a country you barely got to know.

Far across the lake of the Atlantic,

 why can’t you love me, my overt sexuality,

 my hound like blank and sullen gaze?

Your humble mouth was like a honeysuckle

on the playground at recess,

a small delight

 with a light innocence and liveliness.

Why did you steal it from me?

Taking it out from under my lap

without mercy or warning.