Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty-year writer and author of 12 published books of fiction and poetry and 7 Stage Plays. Her latest Novel “Hair of a Fallen Angel” was published by Spuyten Duyvil, NYC, fall of 2024. Later this year Volume 11 of ‘dear Petrov’ will be published by Wilderness House Press. Her darkly comic play CLANDESTINE presented as an Equity Premiere Staged-reading hosted by SHOPTALK, on June 10 at EAG Guild Hall Theatre, NYC. Honors include 21 Pushcart Prize Nominations. Her play ‘The Crooked Heart’ concerning artist Jackson Pollock premiered on October 25, 2022 at the Irish Repertory Theatre in NYC. Adapted from an earlier novel, it was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Susan is a Brand Ambassador for The Galway Review. A Youtube music video for her latest novel at: https://youtu.be/W2HVIc4NrqY
Meditations on dear Petrov
Set in 19th Century Russia during a time of war
By Susan Isla Tepper
SHORT SEASON
There was a dream of doves filling an old vase. Doves don’t frequent in these parts, dear Petrov. As you well know. Nevertheless they let out a most luscious floral scent. Turning from doves to lilies at a snap of the finger. You laugh and ask how I know of these tropical species. From the great books I say. Pointing to his glass. Your whisky is running low. You suggest swallowing the blood of the doves. I feel my heart turn over. In the firelight the whisky carries a pale red tint. I will give you benefit of the doubt, I say. Uncertain. But why start a row. Soldiers live with blood the way my river calls out. In the short season I go to it. Unbridled. As though immersing in a lover. Prepared to float away in its temperate current. If you come back during summer we can take the river waters together. Watching your brow furrow. Knowing you don’t think but one day ahead. If that. Perhaps just one bullet at a time.
A TREE IN MY SINK
Such a long time. Dear Petrov, how you used to soak your feet in that deep, copper basin. It has turned bluish-green over the years. Your boots looked rough and loamy standing empty near the door. As if boots could sing. How many days and nights I pushed that curtain aside. Wishing to see you coming up the path. Boots stomping. As men do, in anticipation. Once, dear Petrov, I was certain that moss nested along your soles. It’s not a large tree. Wild in the elements, it would grow thickly resilient. That is the trouble. I am caught here. Wearing skirts that capture dust. Drinking in crowded rooms where steam curls the ends of my hair. I remember you taking a strand of it in your mouth. A black night without stars. Ancient city. Beggars looking in congregated beyond the windows. Tea was drunk, and all that. In the sink there is room for you still.
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