Another One for the White Nights
It’s warm; I go home on foot.
A sandal strap is scratching
a mosquito bite on my ankle,
which makes me think of X
(but I shouldn’t I shouldn’t I shouldn’t)
I come home and check
how much I’ve walked today
and I turn off my phone
an hour before going to bed
but then I dream of floods
and boys my age
of handwriting I can’t make out
of a ripped dress
I wake up and look
through my curtainless window.
At 4 am, the sky is radiant cyan,
glowing like an aquamarine.
You never really get used to it,
which, at the end of the day,
gives one hope.
And I want to be hopeful:
open-minded, lighthearted,
nimble-footed,
endearing as I am enduring.
I want to love
the sewing needle
as much as I love
the one that leaves ink
on my skin forever.
I want to never feel the guilt
of running to catch
the last subway train—
and missing it.
I want to remember
the apple tree by the building,
the hotter summers and the colder winters,
being allowed to play outside
on my own. We were the last ones,
but it’s fine.
I want to think that it’s fine.
I want the itch to stop.
Maria Muzdybaeva is an emerging writer and poet from Russia. She holds an MA from Yale University, where she studied Comparative Literature and Film. She currently lives in her home city of Saint Petersburg where she works for Calvert 22. Her work is forthcoming in Sky Island Journal.
