a culture of war, whatever that means & our soviet kitchen was small
by Tatiana Dolgushina
a culture of war, whatever that means
I feel there is inside of me the entire history
of a Soviet century, all of its people
either living or,
all of its words, sounds, echoes,
have stacked themselves into a bundle
and been placed
inside the hardest spot,
the spot inside the child, within me
how can war be inside children
how small do I have to reach
for it to stop being?
how far does I have to go
to lose understanding, words,
echoes
of a world that holds me
that is not found anymore.
at night in my mind, I whisper
to myself phrases in Russian
that I hear sometimes, on tv, or
by the Russian lady in the town
who calls me ‘rabbit’
as one would if one were
from that world, and I absorb her
other-worldliness like mine, one
that is no longer exists, her sad eyes
penetrate the air, she switches to
‘English’ to hide that other existence
but I insist, I pretend I don’t understand
when she speaks it, so her sad eyes
return to me, and I see in themselves
a mirrored reflection, a myself
a child in a war, standing
a two children heard by nobody,
our soviet kitchen was small
a man was sitting next to the window
swirling a metal spoon in the tea cup
making a loudly sharp noise.
my mother burst out at him: will you
stop!
he replied: how do I stop
mixing my sugar, and she said: figure it
out.
I had my own cup of tea and
I swirled my sugar in circles silently,
trying the laws of physics of my
four year old reality,
and I said: this
is how, my small hands gripping
the metal spoon, trying to evade
another scene.
in a room where the air
is so dry there is never mold
on the windows, where the snow
breaks the glass with its sharp
teeth.
the man kept on smiling
at the request, as if no more a
ridiculous thing could be asked
of him, as if the whole thing, us
in that kitchen, was absurd,
what with the walls
listening in, the government telling
us of what reality is, hiding
documents from abroad,
taking us
if we didn’t listen,
like it has others
my mother’s continuous outbursts,
her anger, was like a joy
to find, to find
that one is still living.
Tatiana Dolgushina was born in Soviet Russia and grew up in South America. Her poetry has been published in Hobart, CALYX, TAB, The Write Launch, The Lindenwood Review, and Red Booth Review. She holds graduate degrees in both biology and poetry. Her multilingual and immigrant identity are central to her work.
About “a culture of war, whatever that means” and “our soviet kitchen was small”, Dolgushina writes, “These poems are reflections on the violent effects of a dissolving country on a child, the creation of a refugee, and the life-long displacement that losing your home culture creates. The linguistic fluidity of the writing is a necessary expression for the writer who had to grow up learning 3 languages as she moved from country to country after the collapse of the Soviet Union, as a parallel to the chronic confusion she experienced.”