Finding Baba Yaga Page 3

in an old Russian storybook

  not pink tulle but embroidered robe.

  She’s the mystery jewel,

  in the simple setting;

  out of place, out of time,

  out of my league.

  An Oddness Between

  There is something odd between them

  The iron-nosed witch and the new girl.

  Something angry, dark, secret.

  A story I can’t read.

  I worry about ovens, about finger bones,

  About what might be served in a stew.

  But it is only the anger that simmers.

  No one says a bad word at first.

  Vasilisa laughs my fears away.

  She’s an old woman, afraid of the young,

  she says, rolling the doll between her fingers.

  Maybe it only seems odd.

  She is cranky with age, Vasilisa says,

  running the comb though the gold

  of her jewel-like hair.

  Beautiful, the mirror whispers.

  The Baba just looks in the mirror,

  finding only ugliness. The meanness

  suddenly reminds me of high school gossip.

  Nasty.

  It rubs against me like a sore. I feel scabby,

  but not enough to run, to shut another door,

  not enough to leave my new, my only friend.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Settling In

  This House Turns

  This house turns whenever the Baba commands it,

  spinning not so much like a top but a lazy Susan,

  on a simple axis, spilling nothing.

  She sits at the table, writing her lovelorn column,

  never noticing the spin. Ink settles into the curves

  of her letters, not a bit wasted.

  Even walking across the floor, she’s so practiced,

  she doesn’t miss her footing. We girls wonder at it,

  as we slip, slide across the polished wood.

  If there were a rug, we think, a big Persian,

  even if it has to be tacked down,

  it would help us finish our chores without a fall.

  The old witch would never spend the money, though.

  She’s tight with her purchases, raises vegetables

  in the big garden, and the meat—as we know too well—

  comes knocking weekly at the front door.

  Teaching Us to Drive

  We crowd into the mortar which stretches itself

  like a snake’s mouth, a uterus, a birth canal,

  to accommodate the three of us.

  The Baba shows us the black iron starter,

  the five gears, how the pestle steers.

  how to stop without bumping into bushes.

  Vasilisa, who says she’s older than me,

  gets to try driving first. She’s good

  at going forward, awful at parking.

  I love the speed, can corkscrew through the trees,

  make even Baba Yaga gasp at the loop-de-loops.

  Tomorrow I plan to try wing-walking,

  if only I can find some wings.

  Cauldron

  Baba Yaga doesn’t use a cauldron,

  though her grandmother did.

  Stuck in her ways, the Baba calls her.

  The Baba doesn’t cook over flames,

  So old-fashioned, she tells us,

  preferring a reliable microwave.

  She’s got modern taps, and town water.

  Who wants to carry buckets from a well?

  she says from her sitz-bath.

  She’s remodeled the kitchen till it gleams

  with chrome and stainless steel,

  drawers that close by themselves.

  At first it all seems like magic to us,

  till she shows us the catalogs,

  teaches us to read the fine print.

  Baba Yaga’s Garden

  She grows rows of belladonna, liking the purple

  flower bells, raised rainbow beds of foxglove,

  monkshood.

  Breathing deep of sawdust and smoke from

  her beach apple tree, she makes autumn pies,

  sets them on the window to cool.

  Feeding her pitcher plants, she watches them

  yawn open, smiles as they snap up her meaty

  offerings.

  Every day, she waters, prunes, deadheads,

  weeds, digs in the compost, adds ground bone,

  making her garden grow.

  The sign on the Baba’s garden gate says,

  Come In. There is no sign that says

  Exit.

  Picking the Garden

  My fingers have burns

  from brushing past the smoking flamewort.

  Vasilisa watches from the porch rocker,

  crocheting a vest for Baba Yaga, laughing

  as yet another thorn embeds itself

  under one of my nails.

  I cannot be angry with her

  for taking the softer jobs.

  My fingers tangle in yarn.

  I fumble with needles,

  cannot see the pattern

  until it is done and laid flat.

  Besides, I love the smell of fern

  with its violin curl, the musk

  of dusky roses before night

  closes them down, don’t mind

  the scorch and scar of the garden

  which I wear like medals of war.

  Her Cousin’s House of Candy

  Baba Yaga’s cousin has a house made out of candy.

  Very uncomfortable, the Baba says. The walls sag

  in wet weather and the cousin has to re-ice it every fall.

  The birds continually peck out the door handles.

  The keys never fit.

  In the spring bears come by every morning

  looking for a handout. Or possibly a hand, she mumbles.

  The bone-yard fence is just asking for a call

  from the building inspectors. They have cited her

  half a dozen times already this year.

  I never visit, the Baba tells us.

  You would not believe

  how dirty her ovens are.

  She always eats the help.

  Firebird in the Monkey Puzzle Tree

  The droop of its red tail

  almost sets the needles on fire.

  Sparks burn the long fingers of the tree.

  The roots shrink from the very idea

  of a blaze.

  The Baba can smell the singe

  from her house. She fears that peasants

  have found where she lives,

  runs out the front door,

  waving a stick.

  Shouts—Get off my lawn,

  though it is a meadow in a forest,

  not a lawn,

  not even hers.

  Baba Yaga Has Tea with Kostchai the Deathless

  When Kostchai comes to call he brings roses,

  mostly wilted by his breath which smells

  like a mortuary. His eyes are still

  as gravestones and as hard.

  He calls her Baba Yaga, no nicknames,

  gives a little half bow, dusts the chair

  with his white handkerchief before sitting,

  compliments her on the shine of the floor.

  They sit across from one another,

  glasses full of tea laced with plenty of sugar

  and arsenic, talking about their latest operations.

  Organ recitals, she calls it.

  He complains the weather has been too hot,

  she says nobody uses proper grammar any more,

  he says the price of tea is outrageous.

  She says someone tried to steal her pestle.

  Vasilisa and I stay in the pantry like servants,

  collect the dirty dishes, the glasses.

  Later we launder the table cloth, mop the floor.

  Vasilisa pockets the coins he sets
on the sideboard.

  They are gold, with the head of the tsar

  looking to the left, where danger comes from.

  When he goes, Kostchai kisses the Baba on the cheek.

  It leaves a scar.

  Chicken Feet

  I think today I would like a seaside view,

  the wind in my hair, Vasilisa and me

  sitting on the front porch watching gulls

  and the red sails of the Fifies drifting by.

  How long do you suppose it will take

  for the cottage to get there on its chicken feet?

  I argue for horses’ hooves, Arabian for fleetness,

  or Clydesdales better suited for carrying

  an entire house on its shoulders.

  But will the iron-nose lady listen to me?

  She’s tougher than Clinton or Thatcher ever were.

  Tradition, she says through gritted teeth.

  Tradition, I say, will not get you an easy trip

  south to Brighton or Edinburgh or Atlantic City.

  Still, if you have the time, and money

  is no object, or comes with no objection,

  chicken feet will do, I suppose.

  She laughs, raps my knuckles, says: You rick.

  Vasilisa says, You mean rock.

  The Baba glares at her. They mean the same.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Prince Not Very Charming

  The Prince Comes to Call

  He’s the same as all princes,

  cheekbones like knives

  that cut to the heart.

  A way of talking that sounds as if

  plums have taken root in his mouth.

  His clothes have no wrinkles,

  his hair curls like snails

  around the shells of his ears.

  He looks in every mirror he passes,

  gives himself a wink.

  His fingernails are pink,

  with cuticles like smiley faces.

  Dirt never sticks to his trousers.

  He doesn’t bruise.

  Making Jokes

  I say something funny about the prince,

  then the Baba and I laugh.

  When I say the same to Vasilisa,

  her mouth goes suddenly sour,

  like a lemon too long on the shelf.

  I try another, and another,

  thinking I have to find the right one.

  Soon I can make lemonade

  from her face. I fall silent.

  He’s a prince, she says,

  as if it explains everything.

  which of course it does.

  Humor, it seems, does not change royalty,

  does not supplant reality,

  does not change the lusting heart.

  I Consult the Baba

  The prince and Vasilisa lock eyes.

  Their fingers vine together.

  They make small comforting noises

  like a puddle of puppies

  which makes Baba Yaga fart

  in their general direction.

  Surely not, I whisper to the Baba,

  she isn’t such a fool.

  You do not understand the human heart,

  she tells me. It runs on lust

  the way horses run on oats.

  A necessary meal—but,

  in the end, only grass.

  Vasilisa Argues with the Baba

  “Every loving has a death sentence…”

  —Ask Baba Yaga website

  I’m hanging on your every utterance,

  old lady with the iron teeth,

  but this time you have gone too far.

  All the other tales promise me that love

  lasts beyond death, but your straight razor

  has slit my throat and the truth bleeds out.

  Death is an ending, not a beginning.

  I’ll try to remember this,

  should I ever need to fall in love again.

  The operative word is fall, I suppose.

  No one your age who falls is expected to rise.

  Baba Yaga Answers in Kind

  Baba Yaga answers in kind, but without kindness,

  something about age, something about gratitude,

  something about honor, about how the world works.

  She snorts and snarls, gnashes her iron teeth

  until there are bright sparks and smoke in her mouth,

  until her tongue burns with a vivid flame.

  We back away from the conflagration.

  I look for an extinguisher. Papa had one in every room.

  Perhaps the little hut takes care of such things on its own.

  Perhaps it is well used to dealing with the Baba’s fire.

  An Orchard Tryst

  I see them in the orchard.

  They’ve settled under

  the Beach Apple

  which makes him cough.

  He hawks up phlegm

  into a silken handkerchief

  which he crushes into a ball

  and throws away in the weeds.

  Small white petals fall

  all around them,

  making a wedding canopy.

  I watch them through the scrim.

  Their shadows kiss,

  tongues dodging in and out,

  like little animals seeking

  a comfortable shelter.

  A thrush sings from a burning bush.

  An old wolf lies down next to a lamb.

  A peacock fans open his fancy tail.

  Corny stuff like that.

  When the prince gets down on one knee,

  I turn away. There’s no magic here.

  What comes ever after will make

  no one happy.

  Especially me.

  Silence in the House

  There is silence in the house.

  I recognize it, try to break it

  with the worst words I know.

  Even soap in the mouth

  would be better than this.

  Damn, I begin. Shit.

  Double poop. Ass.

  Baba Yaga looks at me

  and laughs. Glances down

  at her grimy fingernails

  and slowly scratches one

  against her iron nose.

  The sound is worse

  than the silence.

  I wince.

  Try these, she says.

  Mudak, suka, dik.

  She looks back and forth

  between the prince

  and Vasilisa, spitting

  each word out as if

  it tastes sour.

  They don’t notice,

  both so engrossed

  in looking at themselves

  looking at themselves.

  Yebat, she adds loudly.

  The question is clear in my eyes.

  She laughs. I tell them get lost,

  she says, or the equivalent.

  I guess in English, the word

  begins with a percussive F.

  And who, I think, can be silent now?

  The Prince Is Too

  The prince is too old to be eaten,

  Too big to be beaten,

  too powerful to be killed,

  too strong to be carted away.

  He’s too wary to be caught,

  too knowing to be fooled,

  too well-armed to be pricked,

  too deep in lust to leave.

  He eats his own food,

  carries his own drink in a thermos,

  grinds his own coffee beans,

  sleeps with his back against the wall.

  He knows what he wants,

  will get what he came for

  whether it’s one girl or two.

  Princes always do.

  Vasilisa Dreaming

  In the big bed, sleeping beside me,

  Vasilisa dreams. She makes kissing noises,

  touches my shoulder with her small hand,

  palm down. I can feel the heat thro
ugh my gown.

  She sighs, turns over, murmurs the prince’s name,

  Ivan, which doesn’t sit prettily in her mouth,

  being both egocentric and brutal.

  It comes out covered in spit.

  He’ll leave her for someone younger, prettier,

  but not today.

  She’ll leave him for someone older, richer,

  already a king. But not tomorrow.

  I feel her restlessness until I fall asleep.

  When I wake, the bed is small, her side cold.

  She’s gone on that long road into adulthood

  from which none of us returns.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Runaways

  Running Away From, Running Towards In Eight Fits

  1.

  Get up, the Baba yells, her words

  derricking me into morning.

  I leap into my clothes, have no time

  to lace my shoes, or drink a cup of wakeup,

  before we’re running out the door.

  You drive, she says, by which I know

  she wants speed. I’ll tell you where.

  The mortar is sluggish at first,

  but soon we’re careening along

  the lanes of sky. Traffic’s light.

  I can see the wind.

  2.

  There, she says, words strained by air.

  She points to the two riding below,

  Vasilisa behind, holding him tight.

  I lean on the pestle and like a hawk

  we make a great, steep stoop,

  dropping toward our prey.

  I feel the mortar flex and stretch.

  Readying for the pounce,

  I bank slightly to the right

  Then straighten like a teacher’s ruler.

  The prince looks up, but Vasilisa looks ahead.

  The horse’s sides are thick with sweat.

  3.

  Then Vasilisa, silly, cunning girl,

  looks up, loosens her hold

  on the prince for a single moment,

  takes out her mother’s comb.

  She mumbles words I can’t make out,

  flings the comb behind.

  A strange forest of Norway pine

  grows swiftly, raising green fists,

  making a leafy barrier, a portcullis of limbs.

  We must thread our way through

  if we’re to keep them in sight.