Crick, crack, crinkle
babushkas lash twigs
to birch handles, muttering
small incantations.
Swish, swash, swish, swash
shuffling backwards
bending forward, they
sweep the roadway clean.
Rub a dub dub at forest’s edge
gnarled thumbs smooth fragrant oil –
poppy, castor, clove
deep between wrinkled thighs
mount their brooms
scream Baba Yaga’s name
and shoot like wild comets
over tundra, taiga, steppe.
Clip, clop, clip, clop,
a horseman is coming
clad in gold armor
riding a golden horse.
Babushkas fall from the sky like bats
drifting down to doze in doorways
lizard lids closing
on bright blackberry eyes.
Someone creeps shadow-wise
across a darkened threshhold;
bony hands snap out to clutch and catch,
exacting a fierce reckoning to pass.
Who wants to cross? And why? they ask
What you most fear, will find you here.
What will you trade to get in?
What will you give to get out?
* Russian word roughly equivalent to concierge
© 2010 Christine Irving
