52 Sovetskaya Prospekt
I’m haunted by the story of a sack.
My coat smells of the unneutered male cat
who is not allowed outdoors.
I have local boots, the high heels help me
to blend in and are useful on the ice.
Cabbage sizzles blackly in the kitchen,
where flies fly in perfect squares
around the light. It’s minus 11,
pancakes are steaming the window.
The story of the sack comes from another country.
Another country and I’m the one
who’s changed. Even my handwriting’s new —
the m’s have lost their scaffolding and curled up
in my mouth. I’m forced to act in a play
in a language I don’t speak
and I like it.
Who told me the story of the sack?
Two men have moved into the apartment,
they can’t find their country on the map.
Our building is always being redecorated.
The neighbours come downstairs
to have sex in our kitchen,
escaping husbands who are never there.
But back to the story of the sack.
I argue with the men over who is more of a visitor.
Our arguments are long and involved
because they don’t speak English
and neither do I. They wear frilly aprons
in the daytime and make sure I get enough to eat.
At night they get drunk and tell me about a girl they knew
who was put in a sack and forced to get married.
Her family wouldn’t take her back and I hate myself
for thinking, maybe she was happy? Choice removed,
kitchen, children, watermelons all summer.
I take my coat from underneath the cat.
The feathered girls in bright balaclavas —
their knees bend backwards like birds’ legs!
I join them. We skitter
on snow.