The Violet Swan Samovar

After he won,
(I couldn’t say his name),
I bought a samovar,
Big, electrical, and Russian,
With gilded garish flowers,
And a violet swan on the front,
It had black plastic handles,
So gashang that my heart pounded,
With love and anxiety.
I invited my friends over to play revolutionary,
We drank black tea, scalding our tongues,
Pounded our chests and recited dark desolate poetry,
Loretta played the accordion,
As we danced in a room-sized circle,
I fell to the floor demanding to be,
Passed around from arms to arms,
Held like Jane Bowles or a cat,
We ate small rich cakes flavored with cardamom,
Dabbing the crumbs with worn hankies,
Coding our desires in some ancient way,
We forgot.
Wrote a million manifestos that ended in tears,
Another million that ended in rage,
Farewells because we’re revolutionaries,
The rain splattering the streets with dreams,
Goodbye for the night,
And home a jiggety-jig jig,
I love you in the beautiful dark,
Your body wrapped around mine,
Winding sidewalks lit with jasmine,
Panties strewn from one end of the city to the other,
Flagging our flesh, open and wet.

About Avery Cassell

Avery Cassell is a queer butch San Francisco writer, poet, cartoonist, and artist who grew up in Iran.
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