Chekhov in English

Tea by lamplight and then Mother, the artist, drifted upstairs with the visiting poet

in search of a word. Father, retired sergeant, veteran of Cyprus, Aden, and Belfast,

who’d seen the empire crumble like cake, rose and retired to the piano. There he picked his way

through a minefield of dainty dances: The English Suite. What did Bach know of England? He never visited

this damp gray country. Did I know it after twenty years? The eldest son, a gardener, couldn’t tell me,

having turned to stone. The armchair sagged under the weight of the season gardeners hate most—not the cold

or the early dark but leaves falling, a million notes, just when you thought the piece would end.

Scraps of paper fell at my feet like clumsy snow: I, the guest, cut out a paper donkey.

I cut off its tail for the grown daughter who didn’t know what to do with her life

except to plan a party for souls at a nursing home, so old they had become young again.

O dead of winter! The earth leaned into the dark. Winds from Siberia crossed the North Sea

to knock at the door. I opened it: the street was blue. Across the way, a living room glowed,

curtains undrawn, a stage set lacking actors. And now they entered. I could see

their lips move out of love and cruelty the way that happy families’ do.