Saturday, March 1, 2014

Crimean Saturday



Crimean Saturday

Aluminum-eyed soldiers
in opera-green outfits
hop out of big-tire trucks.
The sky curves and shakes.
Even the archival is provisional.
The better neighborhoods are littered
with pork-scented Ukrainian flags.
It is a Crimean Saturday:
Stalin's cackling-drunk ghost
pours Georgian blood-wine,
toasts the forever-exile of Tatars.
Itchy narrow-ribbed dogs
wait for stale, tobacco-dough,
Russian biscuit crumbs...
chance a bullet to a floppy ear.

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