Poetry
Elizabeth Bachinsky
Strange Ritual
after Sergei Parajanov’s Shadows of Our Forgotten Ancestors
Husband, we have nothing. We’ve sold
the house. No, it’s not right to call it a house.
I don’t remember.
On the day we were married, the elder
men led you to the Church and left
you blindfolded at the door.
Inside, I was also blindfolded. Inside,
the women waited to lead you to me.
I stood in the pavilion in a long white gown
and red woolen stockings.
All I could grasp was the singing.
Then I felt you at my side, then
the yoke. We were harnessed to one another
like creatures from the field.
You, husband, slipped your shoulders free.
I could sense you before me.
The air stirred about us.
I knew we were alone.