my friends are full of it
stories on a fault line
fiddling with the lock while the edifice swayed
they stayed through it, my friends
then counted the cracks on the wall
we figured out a way to get thinner
found their addresses
these friends of ours
figured out a way to get in through a deadbolt
fucked up the jewels inside
told them to leave
furniture and all, told them to fake it
national identity, figure out a way
to gun it, vials of acid
by the door, told them to take it
up in their new countries
no national identity for 4 years
found their citizenships
folded up with the towels
old soviet kitsch, stowed away
head down in a basement
rolled up rugs and mirrors in boxes
told them there wouldn’t be any
so they bolted with them
now everybody’s got a friend
from me, chock full of narrative
and talking refuge
everybody is a refugee
when they never knew me
friend or other, everybody
is a displaced person
figured out a way
to tell off
Born in Moldova, Marina Blitshteyn is currently based in New York and is the author of Russian for Lovers (Argos Books, 2011), where this poem first appeared.
Photo by inezzy via flickr (Creative Commons)