My Marichka has no spine
She walks on her hands to keep the glass out of her feet
Keeps her hair loose to tempt the
Opposition—she is Firebird, she is Mavka
She is rider of the dawn, night, and day
My Marichka dreams the beekeeper’s prophecy
Whispers it to her lovers and laughs when they run
There is no Vasilisa
The skull is hers and it glows through its teeth on her mantel
My Marichka has one thousand arms to hold each child of war
She is Maty, she is Vidma, her sisters dig the graves
Wider than they are asked—my Marichka
Shoots them first
The world cracks open to the yolk at her smile
She has been born again one thousand times
My Marichka wears death like a fur cape while her life
Stays hidden in the eye of a needle