Ivan Denisovich breakfasts on skilly, a
black cabbage and fish broth, and cold
porridge made from yellow grass.
Little bones litter the table and floor.
It’s -27°C.
Off to the building-site!
Sentences shuffle across the page;
capitalized guards and lowercase zeks.
Perhaps a remote bird looks on;
a gatherer maybe, Siberian jay?
or scavenger, Carrion crow?
or some other airy reader.
The watch are whited out neck to ankle
like tommy-gun-toting sheep.
Ivan filches roofing-felt, fixes a stove-pipe,
lies low and stands tall.
He stops for oatmeal porridge at 1.00 p.m.
so I do too, in solidarity.
We begin the afternoon stretch…
He chips ice. I suck ice.
He lays slag-blocks. I lie about.
We both get hungry. I lay a table.
Ivan’s moon is rosy and made of stars
but it’s still blazing daylight here.
He expects skilly again for supper.
I’m toying with the idea of poached salmon, Chinese
five-spice, snow peas……
I lay the book aside.
Ivan Denisovich will last another day;
Heck, he’ll probably live forever.
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