Russian Dolls by Lemur

[Nicola]

You loved all things concentric;
Russian dolls and tree ringed trunks,
labyrinths and ripples.
But Russian dolls the most, I think,
exiles in parentheses.

I remember them all as fat red squaws,
a tribe in single file.
How your hands could conjugate
their perfect painted smiles!
It was not the red

of flags and revolutions.
It was the red of hoods
and girls in woods,
it was the muck and squat of lineage.
I could point us both out in that line-up.

You’d be the penultimate;
your swollen belly would belie
the truth of your skittle status
as the endless ring of roses
formed an armour on your apron.

I’d be the last one,
the lady-in-waiting,
bridesmaid to a thimble.
Nesting nothing, as if in protest.
Shake me and I’d cite

my right to marry echoes.