MAX & MISS MODRISS.

A MAN AND WOMAN AND DOSTOEVSKY.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Miss Modriss didn’t
Mind the odd tickle
And kiss, Max finds.

 

Different things occupy
Different minds; hers
Was Dostoevsky and

 

The Russian novel with
Ballet thrown in on the
Sidelines. Max sits beside

 

Her as she turns the pages,
Her eyes focussing hard
On the printed word, her

 

Thumb and finger holding
Gently the edge of the page.
He holds a foreign cigarette

 

Between two stained fingers,
The smoke rising, looking
Over her shoulder at the two

 

Mounds of breast, musing
How he’d like his head to
Rest softly there and her

 

Scent, some French perfume
He’s bought, fills his nose,
Arouses his passion. He

 

Gambled a lot, she says,
Her voice edging towards
Disapproval, her dark eyes

 

Turning towards Max. Who?
Max asks. Dostoevsky, she
Replies, gambled, but seeing

 

He wrote such excellent books,
One feels one ought to forgive.
Live and let live, Max says,

 

Watching her finger and thumb
Bend the corner of the page
And close the book and give

 

Him a steely look. A sin is still
A sin, despite a virtue here and
There, she crossly says, placing

 

Dostoevsky beside her thigh.
Max wishes he wrote novels
Like that, so that he too could

 

Be gently placed next to her
Elongated leg and simply lay.

Reviews

[just rose.]

didn't dostoevsky have the mistress that helped him get the book done in time to pay off the gambling debt?? i may be remembering some other dark russian novelist. anyway, if that's him, this echoes that beautifully. and i'm thinking about henry and june when june says, "i wanted dostoevsky" to henry. the powerful interplay between literature and life. and how men really don't like when women pay attention to anything other than them - unless they want to be left alone; then women don't exist. ;-)