Nov 132012

Poster for Women's Day, March 8, 1914. Claming voting right for women.









by Marina Rubin



March 8th creeps in on crutches with mimosa in his nose

through Red Square and into Times Square,

where it already reeks of Valentine’s Day,

Mother’s Day and Secretary’s Day.



A day dedicated to women, to fleeting visions

in pink gowns, ballroom gowns, wedding gowns,

hospital gowns, nightgowns, mourning gowns.

Sagas behind a triangle with two lines reaching.

Mimosa for women, all women, all symbols,

all harlots, all saints, stenographers, muses,

vice presidents, tyrants, grandmothers, recruiters,

flower girls, shop girls, girl scouts, cookies.



It staggers in on wet feet and it smells of oatmeal cookies

left on the teacher’s desk and of schoolgirls in white bows

gazing at a portrait of Lenin, and of Veronica Kosetskaya,

and her thin hands, and limp braids, and blue eyes.

Blue tears trickling down her cheeks, when a boy

assigned to give her a present, gave it to me instead:

magic markers, a diary, and a doll; stifled sobs and

heaps and heaps of mimosa behind me.

“Lets split the present, you can have the markers

and the diary,” echoed through the melting alleys,

and all she kept saying was: “I want the doll, the doll.”

We stood in the midst of an orphic town, both eight,

sinking in snow, tears and hiccups.



He congratulated me as if I won an Oscar or the lottery,

he said that it was his favorite holiday, and that he gave

25 roses to 25 of his lovely female co-workers, and that

last night he dreamed he was holding my hand and I

was not pulling away, and that this weekend he was

driving with Natalie to Boston to spend the holiday

with his mom, and that his mom was beautiful and

genteel and made the most delicious blintzes with

sour cream and cheese, and with mimosa on my shoulders,

I stood in the midst of Rockefeller Center, twenty-four,

sinking in snow, tears and hiccups.