I’m in my deda’s greenhouse on our dacha.
It’s late in August, but the twilight air hints
inescapable October. He shows me how
to pinch the shoots to make tomato plants
grow stronger. Swats my child hand
out of the way because I do it wrong.
It’s late in August, but the twilight air hints
inescapable October. He shows me how
to pinch the shoots to make tomato plants
grow stronger. Swats my child hand
out of the way because I do it wrong.
In the decrepit wooden hut,
he fries potatoes with the lisichki mushrooms
foraged in the morning. He chars the edges,
adds a dollop of smetana to his plate,
not mine. Pinches the side
of my puppy paunch.
he fries potatoes with the lisichki mushrooms
foraged in the morning. He chars the edges,
adds a dollop of smetana to his plate,
not mine. Pinches the side
of my puppy paunch.
My papa, unusually sober, sits on a pile of logs,
whittles a piece of pine into a tiny boat
with his sharp pocket knife, attaches paperbark
for sails with a spent spichka.
I really want to float it, but he sends me
to pick flowers, takes my brother to the creek.
I make a chain of fifty daisies to burden
my neck, count ten for every birthday
papa missed.
whittles a piece of pine into a tiny boat
with his sharp pocket knife, attaches paperbark
for sails with a spent spichka.
I really want to float it, but he sends me
to pick flowers, takes my brother to the creek.
I make a chain of fifty daisies to burden
my neck, count ten for every birthday
papa missed.
The neighbour’s boy, a pioner,
teaches me to tap a birch tree, its juice
spills freely into emptied pickle jars.
I do not like the taste but drink it anyway,
inhaling woody sweetness mixed
with vinegar and dill.
teaches me to tap a birch tree, its juice
spills freely into emptied pickle jars.
I do not like the taste but drink it anyway,
inhaling woody sweetness mixed
with vinegar and dill.
These smells, they trail me
like Pavlov’s dogs, stalk me
like disgruntled lovers. These ghost men’s
schemas linger,
having barely grazed my life. Even now,
tomatoes sting my hands, burning
potatoes make me suck my stomach.
Even now, I drink juice I don’t like.
like Pavlov’s dogs, stalk me
like disgruntled lovers. These ghost men’s
schemas linger,
having barely grazed my life. Even now,
tomatoes sting my hands, burning
potatoes make me suck my stomach.
Even now, I drink juice I don’t like.
