Tag Archives: Anton Yakovlev

They Ate Licorice

Good afternoon. Leaving early her convex desk. Traffic lights conspire in her favor as she walks home. Noises of various cars create chord progressions. There are petunias springing where asphalt cracks. She follows a grey cat’s face with her own, … Continue reading

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Dedication

Shhh— you hear that? The oars behind Boathouse Row striking the water with no ratio whatsoever? Oh, youthful ambition of early varsity rowers! How cutely they shake hands with the Schuylkill River. Check out that couple by Turtle Rock, the … Continue reading

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Marshfield

Getting on the train at 5:30 at South Station, you wonder if your stepdaughter has finally given up on your cat, who has gone missing two weeks ago: “Can’t she accept he must have been pecked to death?” Your neighbors … Continue reading

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Just a Suggestion

Apocalypse in rustic pizza parlors is tough to take, more so than in the street. The comfortable smell of pepperoni adds insult to extinction of mankind. Outside, a broken bell or a grim basset could swing portentous vibes, to harmonize … Continue reading

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Two Days Later You Will Decide You Will Not Return to the U.S.

I cut in line to buy you fresh alpine cheese. Our train leaves in two minutes. For the first time in a decade you will visit your native town, where one wrong turn on a ski slope can eject you … Continue reading

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I Will Come Back to You as Thunder

I will be just out of sight, just beyond the sun. But the sun is so twentieth century. Most of us swim indoors, or shade our noses. — I will be resurrected as a rainbow. But rainbows’ stock has really … Continue reading

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First Snow

If I met your eyes across the table, one passing of a salt shaker would have made our blood run forever warmer. Walking through Prospect Park, I wouldn’t wait until the last bench to kiss you. We would rent a … Continue reading

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