Statuesque in stage stance, famed for vast reach
of your tenor voice, you would milk a note
for applause. Even at eighty, you stretched
a high D with Prokofiev. You evoked
Stalin’s obsessive praise. Late night, he’d call,
rousing you from bed to come serenade
him while his henchmen crammed millions in stalls
of labor camps. What choice could you have made?
You dubbed this voice your lone heavenly gift,
thanked God each sunrise for it. Married twice,
bore two daughters. For years, you’d watch light shift
in your western window, study concise
shades in curved drapes, murmur in brief rushes
of Fedor, your left stranded in Russia.
Roger Armbrust
February 9, 2013
