Leaving Anna Karenina

I remember the heft of it first— how it filled the cup of my handlike a winter-worn brickpolished slick by ice and wind,layered with thick cream stock—papered with mink-dark curls, with steady, truthful eyes, with the rough cloaks of awkward villagers,their backs sloped beneath wagon shafts, and the flutter-drooping lids and ivory-carved shoulders of Russian lives—to be thumbed like resolve from preface to endnotes.

On the cardstock cover, creamy skin blushingunder a black beaver kolpak—that dense fur I wanted to touch,to run my fingers through, knowing I could not—framed by Zhivago-white,Anna in snow, the picture of poise—a body balanced on its own center,longing held steady,thought weighed beside action.

I remember my palms splayed wide to hold it open,how I loved her in Moscow,the radiant architectbuilding bridges of forgiveness—who for three hundred pagesmends the lives of those she loves—her mind a room with all the candles lit.

But I avert my eyes,as she takes the hand of Count Vronsky—already knowing where it leads,look down at my wool-stockinged feet,ashamed for her, unable to meet her gaze.I know what’s coming.I know the train is on the track,the candles dimming—I feel the narrowing of every room—her frame no longer ivory.

I insert a rumpled bookmarkwhen the morphine first gets mentioned—and my thumb stops counting pages.Its resolve spent.

I’ve known too many Annas,too many Vronskys—sometimes a boy, sometimes a girl—sometimes a needle, a bottle, or a pill.

A closed book goes on the nightstand. Then the shelf. Then takes the trip to half-priced books—five cents on the dollar—too thick on thin shelves.