pomegranate 2

grandma stirs her soup
with vigor pulsating through her
veins.
the screams of her bones from
work to
sustain,
and i sit near the window with
my books
clutching to some
word to fill
any void.

надеюсь

mother,
sweet turbulence,
i see distortion, static
on what used to be.
what Red Square where drinks and bottles of empty futures
could have been.
uncovered ruins, to flickers of art flourishing on despondence.

and ice winter days where the heart beats
only to survive.
what life?
they write on walls : graffiti crumbles
for the oligarch.
attached by his side the blood of a child's
awakening.

why i knew what i knew, but saw what few saw.
how did i think all to myself in that tundra of lies.

faces in yearning, painted vastness
in the corner of the iris -
and you are supposed to stand for something
greater than. fetching years of sadness, love inflamed with
raw.

mother,
i am left to shatter for affection. your stories
gather cold on the outer of my skin. so i draw the expression
of the cities charm. something history left out midst all
the desecrated bodies.

this and that, and what i am told to deem the
truth about myself.
where do i come to finally accept

the home i breathe.

foreigner or foe

pen marks stitch on the skin.
the fumes of my land where i stepped to
validity, disappears. goosebumps in high reach
is all that covers.
though my complexion fits as you’d have it be,
my language, on the tip of
the tongue - you have trained to speak
a borrowed one.

and now - a kind of artifact i can
hang on my wall, along with the body
i carried years ago. still clinging
of airplane fuel.

quite a pity - never did i love
what was most alive -
until i cut to hurt,
and out came mercy. oh the blood pours heavy, mine to coat
your streets with.
am i loud enough now.