Finding Baba Yaga Read online

  The Forest Opens Like a Yawn

  The forest opens like a yawn,

  as if it knew I was coming,

  has seen me before,

  can’t be bothered to resist.

  The forest parts like a curtain,

  once drawn tight against the night,

  now opening for the performance,

  an invitation to applause.

  The forest lies like a carpet,

  like a bathmat, like a woman

  used to being beaten, like a girl

  who runs away from home.

  The forest opens

  and every tree holds out its leafy arms.

  Stopping to Consider

  Whose woods these are I think I know,

  a line I learned at school

  but never really considered.

  Miles to go before.

  Miles to go after.

  Though I think I know now

  there are no happy evers.

  Only happy moments.

  Bird song.

  A spotted fawn

  as dappled as the shade.

  The oratorios of frogs.

  A single butterfly.

  And the deep thrumming

  of the forest that too many people

  mistake for silence.

  Call and Response

  I hear birds calling back and forth,

  a duet I will later learn.

  This is a place of correspondence,

  perpetual conversation,

  letters written in the air.

  River asks a question,

  rock asks one back.

  Aspen asks birch, birch asks

  bracken, bracken asks earth,

  earth holds all the answers

  tight against her breast.

  I have questions I don’t know

  how to ask. There are answers

  I don’t know how to hear.

  Here everything talks

  at the same time.

  I need to learn how to frame a question.

  I need to learn how to listen.

  Stones Across a Stream

  The water sings as it rushes by.

  If you drink me, you will become

  a wolf, a fox, a deer.

  Hunger brings strange dreams,

  stranger longings.

  Papa says water over twenty-one stones

  becomes pure. People take longer.

  Counting the stones, I step across.

  There are only nineteen here.

  Papa says we must become water.

  I think I must become stone.

  I want to get through Autumn

  without having another fall from grace.

  Here Where the Path of Healing Starts

  This is the path of healing,

  silver in the moonlight,

  white stones glowing

  like will-o-wisp

  signposting the way.

  On either side, pulses

  of bloody trillium

  warn the weary:

  do not step out here,

  do not stop out here.

  Trees bend over with burdens

  of old leaves, new,

  baring shadow teeth,

  whispering secrets

  only trees can decode.

  Behind, lies only

  the cutting knife

  devil’s bargain,

  severed past.

  Behind, the clean words sulk

  in their dishes of soap.

  Bubbles burst on their way

  to a stainless heaven.

  Here the colors run riot,

  little birds mob a hawk,

  bats jitter on parade.

  The forest is anything but silent.

  I step onto the path,

  knowing it is but the beginning,

  one foot, then the other,

  till I gleam silver all over,

  in the moonlight,

  starting with my hands.

  Evening Meadow

  The hallelujah chorus of birds,

  a feathered symphony,

  mossy grass beneath my feet,

  trees standing silent watch

  from the edges of the meadow.

  A fox makes a parenthesis in the air,

  hunting a meal. A woodpecker

  jackhammers his invitation.

  Leaves tremble when I pass

  as if fearing contagion.

  I am becoming a poet.

  I am thinking in metaphors.

  I am walking through a poem.

  Learning the Words

  The longer I am in these woods,

  I learn words.

  I become cornucopic

  with language

  which rolls around my mouth

  like dark chocolate,

  like butterscotch

  like peppermint.

  There’s no one to caution my tongue,

  no one to soap my mouth,

  no one to bridle my brain.

  Here I find such words as smut,

  putrefaction, ordure, sludge,

  all synonyms for filth

  my father doesn’t know.

  But beautiful words, too:

  allure, taradiddle, calliope,

  mellifluous, dulcet, paradigm

  which he has never spoken.

  There is no end to such learning,

  And no seeming end to these woods.

  Little House in the Wood

  It’s unassuming, uninviting,

  a pimple on the backside of the birch forest.

  It makes no good first impression,

  no impression at all. Reminds me

  of a girl like me, on the first day of school,

  on the last.

  A light in a window, flickering,

  smoke making curlicues above the chimney

  like a child’s first drawing of a house.

  The little hut is fenceless, defenceless.

  I am not afraid.

  One step, two,

  and then the house itself moves,

  turning counter-clockwise,

  widdershins,

  shows me its door.

  The lock grins open, baring its teeth.

  It spits out a word.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Meeting the Baba

  That First Word

  That first word hangs in the air

  between the house and me,

  droplets of spittle suspended

  in the dusk.

  Later, I learn spittal meant hospice,

  hospital, journey’s end,

  so foreign I don’t know

  if it’s clean or dirty,

  whether welcome or warning.

  I smile, say the magic word Please,

  that all wheedling children know.

  An upstairs light trembles.

  Curtains twitch like eyelids reading text.

  The door sticks out its tongue

  testing for, tasting for honey,

  then sighs with happiness,

  lets me come in.

  Knock Knock, Who’s There

  It’s a joke, you know.

  You don’t know?

  Knock knock,

  Who’s there?

  Witch.

  Witch who?

  Not who.

  Where’s who?

  Who’s on second,

  Which is on first.

  Something like that.

  I saw it on tv.

  One of the few shows Papa allowed.

  Two old guys,

  one fat, one thin.

  A routine, Papa called it.

  Rhymes with clean.

  Well, it was funny at the time.

  Before the door was closed.

  Was opened.

  I See the Bony Hand First

  I see the bony hand first,

  knuckles broken on the wall of time.

  Dirt under long fingernails.

  It signals me i
n.

  I see the crusted eyelids next,

  the crafty blue eyes, so startling

  in that face, wrinkled as the sea.

  Hair the grey of winter waves.

  And then she smiles.

  It proves no improvement.

  Cheekily, I smile back.

  If she’s surprised,

  She doesn’t show it, grunting

  an animal acknowledgment.

  It’s invitation enough for me.

  Meeting Baba Yaga

  She’s oceanic, a mighty force.

  Teeth so full of fillings,

  they might as well be made of iron.

  Swollen knuckles on her fingers,

  plain and round as worn wedding rings.

  It aches to look at them.

  She shuffles about in tired slippers

  that slap at her heels like velvet-pawed cats.

  Veins in her ankles broad as the River Don.

  Eyes as light blue as a waterfall,

  shot through with mica glints.

  I cannot read her intent.

  First she smells like a musty closet,

  then like a garden of herbs,

  tansy and thyme and the musk of sage.

  I hold out my hand in greeting.

  She grips it so hard, I wince,

  whisper—Damn!

  Papa’s voice in my ear

  saying, Don’t swear.

  I taste soap.

  The old lady laughs.

  You’ll do, girl, you’ll do.

  And I do.

  Touring the Little House

  It’s so much bigger than its seams,

  room after room, appearing

  along the hallway; river pearls

  on a watery strand.

  Here rooms grow like gourds

  in a garden, all sizes, all shapes,

  all colors, with windows in each wall,

  no two ever the same.

  It’s so much bigger than it seems,

  as if expansion, like a land war in Asia,

  is the point of living here.

  It seems I have a bed, bathtub, closet.

  It seems she knew I was coming.

  It seems the house knew how to prepare.

  The Baba is unsurprised by seemings.

  They are part of her witchy trade.

  Chores

  The Baba doesn’t ask, just tells me,

  the list as long as a death sentence,

  but not as final.

  Sweeping of course. And dusting.

  A house that can walk about has rooms

  full of sand, weeds, seedlings, burrs.

  Making turnip soup each morning.

  That ugly, prolific old root gives gladly,

  like a missionary in a cannibal’s clay pot.

  Sprinkling poppy seeds around the foundation.

  For the hut’s protection, she says.

  Get an alarm, I think, but don’t say it out loud.

  Washing the dishes, drying them on the cutting board.

  For one old person, she uses a lot

  of utensils, especially sharp knives.

  Answering questions when the Baba asks.

  After a while, I just make things up.

  She seems to find that amusing.

  Feisty Girls

  Baba Yaga prefers them bright, asking questions,

  challenging her, turning their backs.

  She likes the ones who stick out their tongues,

  laugh at death threats, use foul language, never beg.

  She wants them to sweep the hut without whining,

  empty the compost without complaint,

  cook the soup, put a hand on the pestle,

  learn to steer.

  If they can sing the Volga Boatmen song,

  dance the Kazachok without falling over,

  recite Pushkin from memory,

  know all the patronymics for Rasputin,

  that’s a plus.

  Boys, on the other hand, she devours whole,

  spitting out the little finger bones.

  Even if they can dance and sing.

  Even then.

  The Baba’s Iron Nose, Iron Teeth

  Hey, old lady, that nose, those teeth

  are pitted with age.

  When did you last see a dentist?

  You can’t go out looking like that;

  you’ll scare the neighbors.

  All I need is a strong polish,

  some good grade wire wool,

  soft brush, dishcloth, cotton gloves,

  and a big tin of WD40.

  All you have to do is lie back,

  close your eyes, open wide,

  think of the tsarina.

  Trust me.

  I’ll do the rest.

  Mortar/Pestle

  Baba Yaga has never learned to drive a car

  though she travels many miles each day,

  sailing in her granite mortar, steered by a pestle.

  The thing smells of crushed garlic, borscht,

  dark Turkish cigarettes, kvass,

  a Russian stew of bad habits, and tall tales.

  No one sees her of course. She doesn’t exist

  unless you count bad dreams. Yet still she flies,

  the friendly and unfriendly skies,

  across tundra, taiga, major highways,

  avoiding traffic jams, roundabouts,

  only bothering the occasional helicopter

  or low-flying private planes.

  Now and then, aliens are reported,

  or the government says she’s a weather balloon,

  or sometimes an incoming storm.

  But that blip of unknown origin means

  she’s off to the grocery store or bingo parlor,

  mahjong game, or bowling alley again.

  Or maybe the latest superhero movie

  though she says their teeth are too white, too even,

  wonders how they can eat with those dainty choppers,

  gnashes her own.

  When she gets going nothing,

  nothing stands in her way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Vasilisa

  A Small Knock

  The knock is small, barely a scratch,

  I open the door without using the peephole.

  On the doorstep, tentative, another girl.

  I smile, usher her in. Usher, like a servant,

  or the person at a play with a flashlight,

  the one who shows you to your seat.

  She smiles back and comes in, turns left,

  always left, widdershins the Baba says,

  walks the long hallway, finds a room.

  It’s as if she’s been here before, knows her way,

  or if she has dreamed of coming here,

  who is, herself, as gossamer as a dream.

  The room she turns in to is my room, now hers,

  Like an explorer planting a flag. We share, she says.

  Sisters. Companions. Cousins. Friends.

  There is no word for what we are.

  Saying Hello to the Other Girl

  Hi.

  Hi.

  I’ve run.

  I’ve come.

  This house.

  This hut.

  My father.

  You slut.

  I hurt.

  You hope.

  I hate.

  You dope.

  I cut.

  You ran.

  From Father.

  From man.

  You know.

  It’s true.

  We both.

  We two.

  Who knew?

  In Vasilisa’s Bed

  So now there are two of us here, sharing a bed,

  which grows larger the longer we lie in it.

  Vasilisa, she says suddenly, singsong.

  pointing to her tidy, perfect chest.

  Natasha, I tell her. The kids called me Nasty.

  Tash, she says. Never c
alls me anything else.

  She’s small and fine-boned as a china doll,

  hair like flax, two fat braids, eyes grass and gold.

  Not at all like me who grew large and lumpen,

  dark from the firing of the kiln.

  We are taken for sisters nonetheless.

  How We Are Different, How the Same

  I chew with my mouth open,

  She chews with her mouth closed.

  I snore in my sleep, or so she tells me.

  She makes little mewing sounds, like a cat.

  I like to walk outside, sit on a stone,

  watch the river, make my mind go still.

  She sings all day long, like a demented cuckoo,

  like a Disney princess on crack.

  She’s magnet,

  I’m iron.

  We draw ever closer.

  It’s an uncomfortable,

  comforting thought.

  Being Sisters, Becoming Friends

  We talk the first day. Tell jokes the second.

  By the third we are truly sisters,

  sharing my story, her story, history.

  Turning our backs to one another

  when we get undressed, dressed.

  She gets the bigger part of the closet,

  the major part of the bed, the first draw

  of water in the shower, as if they are all her due.

  Perhaps they are. I don’t care.

  It is the first time I have a sister.

  A best friend.

  Any friend.

  Vasilisa’s Doll

  I came with nothing,

  but bad memories

  and an empty backpack.

  Vasilisa’s mother

  gave her three things.

  She never travels without them:

  a tiny wooden doll,

  last of a nesting trio;

  an iron comb with teeth like hooks;

  a blue ribbon the color of water.

  Each came with a warning

  which Vasilisa never shares.

  Sometimes when she’s asleep,

  I run my fingers over the doll’s head,

  touch the iron tines, thread the ribbon

  through my fingers.

  But I never do this when she’s awake

  in case she’d mind.

  The Mirror Knows Her Name

  The mirror knows her name,

  She’s the Beautiful,

  It tells her daily, but she doesn’t answer.

  She’s like a princess