The Matryoshka's Husband

The Matryoshka’s Husband

The matryshoka’s husband is dying.
He has lived such a long time.

What he has seen has tired him.

His hands feel heavy and swollen,
each time he paints her sarafan,
he notices

his fingers turning to wood.

The matryoshka is dying.
With no one to feed her

and with such a great need
for her,

she dies the way god died.

Slack in the haze
of exhaustion,

her husband cannot tell his son:

This is how you make matryoshka.

Cannot say, you must save matryoshka.

And matryoshka
cannot speak,

at last her progeny
have run out,

a river gone to chalky lichen
and dust

beneath the sun.