Archive for March, 2017

Hey Yuliya,


yet another,




I renounce nothing,

but regret all.

Broken heart sings,

after the fall.





I felt dizzy.


I said something, I know not what.

My interrogator slapped my face

and cursed harshly: “Wrong answer, Манда!”

“No, shit-head!” I screamed back,

“Wrong fucking question!”




Alone in my cell.

I slept.

I dreamt.

I woke.

I clutched my knees.

And remembered.

I had to move some of my old boxes,

my old things,


I had the feeling that I should check inside,

make sure there was no mold, or other signs of decay.

Academic papers and letters from my soul mate.

All was okay.

I was pleased.

I didn’t want to read any of the words,

that would be too painful.

Just to know they lived on,

that was sufficient,

even if only in my dreams.





Last night’s prayer.

This morning’s forgotten dream.

Today’s nightmare.

Tomorrow’s sorrow.





“Dear Colleague, have you considered our proposal and the implications of the dossier anymore? Any conclusions?” he asked.

I looked into his eyes,

vapid pools

of bullshit.

“The future is as fucked as today,” I replied.

“We’re screwed, and all too soon another unwanted baby will be born.”





Of course,

I would have the last laugh,

rationally and perversely,

I was able to reason right now.

When they ultimately broke me,

and I was finally willing to spill the beans,

I’d be such a mess,

that I’d have forgotten,

what they want to know.





It was the inconsistency that did it,

that sent me insane,


that’s what I’d tell him, her or them,

when finally they realized I was broken.





To keep myself sane

and motivated to live


I tried to recall in my head

and hum out loud

Shostakovich’s Seventh.

But, alas,

all I could manage was

Sviridov’s uh, yeah…





Then, nothing.

After the recent,

relatively pleasant

and stimulating,


They left me alone.



No contact.

Days passed.

And nothing.

Alone in my cell,

it used to be a refuge,

now it felt like hell.





One day they asked

what I’d do if they let me go,


Why, that’s easy (I proclaimed!),

I’d go to New York City, and sell t-shirts,

because that’s what you do, in the land of the free,

living liberty.

Witty, I’d have an acrostic for Dags,

a funny word I learned while on student exchange in Australia.

Capital letters, spelling out: “Don’t Actually Give a Shit!”.

That makes absolutely no sense, they replied.


Why would they understand?