smoke nostalgia
washes over me, natsukashisa, bittersweet
plum wine diluted
with our well
water

the smoke
cigarette, thick and spicy is washing
up into me and suddenly
grandpap
is there, skeletal and wiry
leathery dark face cracking with laughter
as he picked up chubby little child me


 i say, he's dying


his ghost story

two hours
before
he's gone.

a message
which you insist is
dangerous and you say
"your mother tells me that your boyfriend
speaks german,"
and this is actually your message saying:

my knowledge of you is second hand

and as i translate
to find international sales
pitching itself at your door
i feel that you are old now
and somewhat foolish
and i feel more alone
at night.

Consider the fact that I have retold
"daddy and I" a thousand different ways. But
I have not recovered from the
lack of air in our lungs and I have not
weeded our garden and I have not addressed
a letter to you. I have only laid down our memories,
dried them in the sun, salted them and dipped them
in a thick, zesty sauce,
made of melted iron and lead.

is there a myth? lurking in our veins
symbology
for the way, when i am hurt, i am quick to say,
"my father made me wings and bid me fly too close
to his sun."

yes, that truly is his voice. i adore andrey for showing me this.

it gets even more impressive...








watch his live performance.



i've never heard a countertenor like that.



p.s. that accordion-like instrument? our own resident russian played it for six years.
 
he also attended a school for musicians.

 the man is far too enigmatic.

Sometimes I put up poetry that I know fails or is incomplete. I put it up for distance, and for peer review.

Any time you comment, I always read it. I want your criticism. It helps me grow.

Love you.

V.A.S.T.

i have a clear
memory

i.

the way i was taught
to answer the phone
was,
"East Coast Cleaning,
may I help you?"


iii.

daddy has been gone
for three days and
mommy is frantic because
she doesn't know where
he has gone.

when he comes back
she yells.

and he says,
"i thought i told you
i was going on
a business trip."


iv.

we were in front of the big
white fridge under the
bright fluorescent light
and daddy
gave me a soft, fuzzy puppet.
"from california," he said,
and i name him mister
buns and keep him
even after the puppy
chews the nose and an eye.


i have a clear
memory

i.

i always read
the self-help
that mom found
at the library

and listened
intently when the
tape said,
"never ask questions
with yes-or-no answers.

"always keep them
open-ended."


ii.

daddy said, "so
you're not going to come home for
a whole year."

and i said, "yes."