Svidrigailov's Dream

Her limbs too soft, almost, to feel the bone,she came at me from a dark corner. Drippingwith moss. All five years of her.She wanted it. Somehow horses brayed beyondthe wall and lightning crackled, though it never rainsin Petersburg this time of year. Heat sticksto yellow brick and night or day you inhale fog.

        Suddenly I'm in a tilting room—the slantsand slats breathe one word at me: criminal. But it's not methey want—it's that pussy Raskolnikov. So softthat even as he brought the ax down on her greasy skull,even as her small evil buckled to the floor and hidden trinketsrattled from her dress he wept confession. I feel the wet snoutnudge my neck. I turn but there is only a cracked teapot onlya crumpled letter and these reeking walls. The horseis in here somewhere.

My father taught me how to hustle. Marfa, rich slut,way too easy. After so many years of her powderedstink, even with my lovers, designer suits, myallowance, I bored. So what? I am in that barn now,rigged with candles. Vodka, sausage, Georgian wineand whores—my serfs, my wife: all the same.Funk of bare feet and manure, their sychophantic wails.The gypsy band's accordion, the rasps of their women.I swell with pleasure.

But there's the horse again, this time in the square,buckling beneath the peasant's blows and all I want is to get to the part where through a drunken hazeI pick a servant, any servant, and take him out backinto my tongue-tied versts.But the peasant won't stop and I am turningblue. I grab his stick, push him aside and pushthe horse's tail out of the way. Its head and front legsscrape the cobblestones.