Legacy

I still act out of hunger, out of lack,
I beat myself to death with a whip –
There are journeys that never end –
The wastelands conquered are too small.
Moderation is the measure of all things – I try
To teach a girl, one in whose blood
The Soviet era’s permilles still flow.

I wish there was a sober house,
The kind of Minnesota programs that would eliminate
These intoxicants and cure my anxiety, and
All the Siberian experiences of grandmothers, and all the deficits –
The queues for meat and bananas where I still wait – despite the fact,
The products are different, the hunger is the same.

I tell myself that I want to act out of fullness, fullness, fullness.
But in the new-age prophylactic I drink ineffective
Antidotes, I get another injection – even
In language, even at home, I find my inherited
Being, I hear permanent voices,
Who say that if I don’t try harder, they’ll throw me out -
From home, from language, from the hearts of those I love.
So, I must go on, because I need
One more piece of Soviet-era sausage.