Poetry Blast #2

Boris Totiev Plays Accordion in a Picture His Mother is Holding

I was looking at myself sideways

In the full-length mirror in our room,

Pulling in my stomach that had –

This past summer –

Swelled out grotesque and proud

Of its own accord, it seemed,

When you called me through with the voice

You usually reserved for trouble, or tragedy.

I was, for a short while, half-pleased

When it turned out to be the latter

Because your horrible cousin had died

A week ago and you felt guilty that you didn't cry

At the funeral

In Windygates

And we sat eating birthday strawberries

For your twenty-eighth year

While we waited for something to open up and crack

Five minutes ago

You were swearing at your new phone

And cursing reception with 'fucks' under your breath

And out loud

That I still heard through two walls.

Then, together we watched the footage

Of old men in suits and jumpers

Looking

Lost.

And you could see unapologetic gaps

In their mouths, missing and black teeth

Behind lips drawn back to the molars.

Their heads thrown back to wail made me think of the stupidest thing,

Of skinny men doing hair metal

Guitar solos,

In videos from the '80s

You had the sound down

So we watched the tanks and the people and the subtitles

And tried to pronounce "Bes-lan"

As we imagined Trotsky might

If he were alive and a television reporter

My tea went cold –

You cried a little –

As we watched one mother

Subtitled on the screen saying,

"Do you need a photo of my child?

Will you film a photo of my son?"