Akademicheskaya Metro Station Sixty-four meters underground: vaulted ceilings whiter than eggshells, chrome shinier than any American diner. Pride of Lenin, who, mummified, did not see it open but extolled its nominal achievement by plaque five meters tall. On the escalator, my hand in a grey fingerless glove finds yours. A second couple kiss…
her son. Can we get
horchata? No. Not today.
It’s Tuesday. Treinta tacos?
De asada? Para llevar.
The wait’s worth it.
Cutlets (also called potato chops), much like my family and their language, resist any attempt at tidy or singular classification.
You die if you worry, die if you don’t. I laughed the first time he said it. I hadn’t heard it before.
It is June and the foxgloves are in bloom.
In two days it shall be my birthday.
We made the heads of Styrofoam
so not to be too heavy on their frail necks.
Hearts? Simply-fashioned, from lumps of stone.
Finding them dead on returning from vacation,
she flushed her six African Cichlids.
The last three nights, I dreamt I was a sail
Lifted, swept and thumped from here to there.
The unconsidered diaries of family life fall open at once favourite recipes,
bittersweet imprints on the page of stained, smeared, sticky memories.
Bellies lined with pyttipanna, we refill our water bottles and stride home from the city centre towards Block 5.
You scribble on a piece of paper, pausing every two minutes to remember. Your memory isn’t what it used to be. But you try anyway.
Where cars lie dying
in Ligurian scrapyards
the Via Aurelia
travels slowly past