droem: dreaming of russia
just walked off the train, discovering,
I had stepped onto the platform
two stops too soon;
looking back, the train leaves
with all my possessions
heart heaves heavy
hiking from the station, a small run-down town
comes into view; i walk right into a pub like place
and order a drink. looking around, i notice
the place is both a restaurant/ bar, and beauty salon,
rolled up into one fat cigar
sipping my seltzer with a slice of lemon
i wait to get a chair massage
green walls looming like vines, unpruned
old sea green paint peeling, i wait my turn
when i get to the chair, a woman who speaks
broken english, welcomes me warmly;
i tell her i too do massage in my homeland;
and, are there positions open for me?
she sadly sighs and says, how little work
there is; when i tell her i am just visiting,
she warns me not to travel around this town
alone; there are men with bullets, disguising
as dancers, who may make me their prey
i thank vadana profusely for her warning,
and implore her to tell me where to go
to spend the night. again, she says
i am welcome to stay in a small room
behind this shop, until the dawn breaks
then i realize i am in my native russia;
there is a revolution; fear paints the streets
in red terror; no one is on the streets
everyone gathers around their home fires
with bubbah meinsahs, beet soup, blinis
hovering over the common thread
of a culture bared thin, as the tattered
sign outside the pub, incised with fading
blue and orange paint,
metropol,
upon cold and flapping canvas
droem: a poem based on images from a dream.
bubbah meinsahs: childrens' stories, or stories about the family
Kate Lamberg
9/18/11
k
