Russian Poem

my father loved Olga Ilyinskaya —
maybe more than my mom
or maybe just in some other way

with her, he didn’t live in a flat
with her parents-in-law
surrounded by Czech cabinets called deficit
and Bulgarian records faking the Beatles

with Olga —
the woman from a Russian novel
the protagonist —
great procrastinator — longed for
living in a daydream
full of things he’d never do

he had slaves, however
so he could afford it
hopeless white slavery — that’s what Russia is
inherited by the descendants of serfs
imagining being lords
in a bloody, circular rush of resentment

like many who left that land
I can’t resist explaining Russia
well, Olga was different
didn’t flirt, tease, or act silly
she visited with a mournful face —
presumably, her dignity
I never got it

she married my dad’s —
no, the hero’s — friend
hard-working industrialist
with no imagination

you must never lose your face
my dad told me
as if I were his Chinese son

that’s why I never slammed a door
raised my voice
cried in front of witnesses
liked Russian literature
demanded anything
or threw a vase —
missing — at a man
I’d love in just a few pages

like Scarlett O’Hara did
in a different story
about another war