Here I am drinking Prince Vladimir tea
as the city smolders and the smoke starts
to clear. Prince Vladimir. Who is he?
And does he really smell as good as that
cup you held in the summer of my thirty-
third year. I bet his hair is the color of
the honey I bought at the market the other
day, the one with the comb still in it,
all those Russian women clicking
their tongues. He must be from Russia,
a place I've never been. Have you been to Russia?
Amazing the things I don't know.
Like if he sleeps with his arm thrown
over his eyes like I do or if he ever went
dancing and ended up with some girl
in the stall of the bathroom. Do princes
go dancing? They do in the movies.
Like Dr. Zhivago. Did they dance in
Dr. Zhivago? I know they rode sleds
and had misunderstandings and heartbreak
at train stations with women in gorgeous
white furs. Did you see that movie?
Amazing the things I don't know. Perhaps
I'll call you on your new fangled phone.
I don't like the phone or to be more precise
I feel like the phone is a country I don't
understand, everything muffled
as a girl touching your face with mittens
on her hands. I bet he sleeps all day.
I bet he has a blanket made from bear's fur
like the one my grandmother took from New York
to Paris. I've never been to Paris.
That is a crime, a broken zipper
on a Dior gown. Oh how I'd love Paris.
I'm sure he's been to Paris. And you've been
to Paris, that much I know. I'm going
to go and eat Le Tigre all day and write
poems and go to the palace of Yves Saint Laurent
where the women wear pants (even Catherine
Deneuve) and wait for their lovers
who walk down the street with their shoes
in their hands because it's late
and everyone is a prince in the dark
after a certain hour and enough sipping rum.
Some things I know. Perhaps I'll call
on my ridiculous phone, antiquated as Dr.
Zhivago or the name Vladimir. I bet he sleeps
all day with his arm flung over his eyes
like me, dreaming of all the places I've never been.