The Folly of Carnage

Russia! The land that should by rights be mine.
The land of my grandparents, who fled the shores
Of the Black Sea while the bone-shaking roars
Of cannon, Red artillery, back in nine-
Teen twenty, fired their last flaming volleys
On Odessa, and the White Army died,
Or fled defeat in murder-suicide.
Russia! The land of all my ancestors! Follies
Without number and without end have wrenched me
From my home to this land of exile: for I
Who have never touched your soil nor
Broken your bread have been raised on Russian tea,
And on meals made by Russian hands, while nearby,
Balalaikas played and Cossacks danced till four.



Copyright 1995 Anissa Nedzel Gage