posed by a Siberian river with your fishing rod
next to cliffs majestic as crumbling pyramids.
Make us scream, make lovers scream
we want you, Vladimir, like ivy
wants to smother mausoleums.
Sweep us off our feet with your sweeping side kick,
squat in camouflage pants for crotch shots,
let us chew the skin off your creamy KGB boots,
know we’ll swallow no matter what, even unto arsenic—
we’ll do it, boyfriend. Raise the vodka and Kool-Aid
to toast your strapping chesticles
illuminated in August on a gallant stallion.
Please strip off your shirt again in September.
We need your sexy Bolshevism on our pin-up calendar.