"A Certain Place" by Betsy Martin
A Certain Place
About Russian cake,
less sweet,
but much richer,
with many layers,
my friend reminisces;
of her ancestors,
murdered, tossed in a pit,
she says little.
“Ya idú v odnó mésto,” she smiles,
I’m going to a certain place.
We’re in a café having tea,
and that’s what women would say,
a delicate phrase, such as
I have to powder my nose.
My eyes follow her down a corridor
to a land where myth and fact mingle.
She opens a door,
the light goes on, and there’s mirror over the sink.
In it a moon, dreamy and powdery,
with shadows under the eyes.
Photo Credit: Staff