PREFABRICATIONS
g.a. scheinoha
In my country,
the place of my ancestors’
birth, there is a legend,
one fellow members
of the bratrstvi
brought along, wedged
between this battered
valise and that steamer trunckful
of memories, all stuffed down,
way down into the hold
of the plachetnkiks, the canvas sails
that bore them across.
This tale consists of a dozen
eggs and how these naive
peasants believe the same
tossed into a wet batch
of cement will somehow
grant good fortune
or at least safe passage
for those who cross over.
If only these footsteps
we take in their dying
shadow were that easy.
A few yokes would scarcely
stain our soles.
