Cossack ghosts haunted Bibi.
Thinking about Russian blizzards,
he migrated to Manchester,
where we met in a bus terminal
and, after asking for a fix,
he recounted a story: an orphan
adopted by a Georgian count
and forced to make coffee, empty
chamber pots, and attend to beehives,
he wandered from the palace’s
tower and startled a girl. Anna,
with waist-length brunette hair
slept in a negligee on a beat-up
couch in a meadow. They soon
bathed in the local lake, lovers
clinching in tenderness who praised
the other under the soapbar moon. Bibi
stole a bag of golden coins from a local
miner who scowled in his sleep, and the
couple erased themselves from their mother
country and piled in a boxcar destined
for Europe. The
seemed to melt without
He called Anna his bride and planned
a wedding when they found a judge
in London. Upon arrival, Anna died
from a virus, Bibi leaving her for the flies.
He shuffled to Manchester and paved roads.
When he finished, I lost my temper, insulting
You’re a scumbag. Farewell, Bibi.
Spicer has had poems in The American
Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Gargoyle,
Yellow Mama, Rat’s Ass Review,
Magazine, Slim Volume, The New Verse
News, North Dakota Quarterly,
Chiron Review, Alcatraz, Easy Street,
Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc.,
and Prime Number, among others.
He has been nominated for a Best of the Net twice and a Pushcart, and is the
author of one full-length collection of poems, Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke's
Press, 1987), and four chapbooks.
He is also the former editor of Raccoon,
Outlaw, and Ion Books.