Bridget Lowe
The Russians loved you. And for that
you loved them back. It was maternal in a way,
on both sides. A country needing love, a woman
with a hole as big as a country in her chest.
They asked you to dance and how you obliged them!
Each rib bowed in graciousness, each fingertip
stretched toward the ceiling of paper stars
cut by children to light your way across
the stage. When you finished, your black head
of hair falling all forward, falling out, your body long
and starved, they stood and wept
in honor of you. They decorated you with scarves.