Watching
Doctor Zhivago Again After Twenty Five Years
by Harold Rhenisch
where sleds once rang with silver bells
and slaves gnawed on frozen bread.
Out there where cameras whirl, breath
stamps its feet and blows on fingers,
clouding lenses. It is the first film
we saw, where lovers lay in that
abandoned house and knew at once
they soon must leave, and ice
crusted every window. We thought
it wildly romantic, like a wedding cake
you freeze and eat a full year after
you tie the knot. The critics said
it was far too much, too sweet,
and self-indulgent. Now we’re in it.
I don’t mean the cake. That’s long gone.
Only sugar roses are left in the cupboard
to remind us of the film we made
and now are screening in the dark.
We sit in chairs, hard chairs; our arms
are bound with leather straps
and we must watch, not the lovers’ meeting
in the midst of war, which charmed us once,
but the way they part, and snow
that falls like scattered roses
closes over every step they take.
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