jamie doom

When I was twelve, and bearing freckles
and odd-shaped eyes bravely,
I sacked St. Petersburg,
stole the Neva River and
seventeen bridges. I keep them in a poached salmon
scented room behind a door with the letter “B”
for “borscht”.

And sometimes while I’m waiting–
while lounging on a greenish blue chair
at the dentist office, or for dark blue inspiration,
or for the pan to finish my pierogi–
I’ll walk by the room with the “B” and pause and inhale.

When I was twenty-eight, and bearing aching ankles
and thinning hair badly, I
limped quietly through the departure gate
in Guangzhou with seventy-five home-made birthday cards,
a comb still in its box from a hotel in Bengbu, a friend’s official license
to referee basketball anywhere in the province of Zhejiang, and the entire
Xi Hu in my gray messenger bag.
So whenever a well-meaning somebody with a
concerned look mentions something
about a career or future plans or “getting it together”
or settling down or saving for a rainy day
or finding meaningful employment,
I remember I have an entire lake to unpack and arrange just so
in a many-windowed room with a burgundy sheet for a door.

When I’m ninety-two, and bearing sickness
and bushy eyebrows boldly, I’ll laugh what others
will consider a decidedly sane laugh
at my hilarious fortune of having seventeen silver bridges from
Russia where I can read seventeen stories from Isaac Babel.
When my generous eyebrows begin to interfere with Babel
I’ll then sleep in rich, toothless wonder under spring blossoms lining a lake,
a lake that was once stuffed in a notebook and stored in a gray bag.

photo courtesy of Phil Lai