Patience

she waits underneath the chandelier
a glittering gasp of a brighter past
wrapped in rose petals and silk she waits
for her crooked-headed man

frowning flowers
brown in the late afternoon sun
her eyes dry as sticks
she stares across
this monolithic corridor called Foyer

she imagines him riding home on a rusting horse
her seasoned champion
now only five chickens are left
and soon she will have to brave the cold

night comes
she waits
under the chandelier
thinking of her
crooked-headed man
who soon will come
running through a Russian winter

to bring her
all the things she wants
dresses, jewels, and lace
and tea and sugar and painted canaries
and two arms and a shovel to bury the child
she couldn’t save alone.