Standing in Lomonosov Courtyard on Victory Day, Moscow, 2018
—Владиславу Торновому посвящаю
I stood alone
outside the Maliy Bolshoi,
closing my throat.
I could not yet write this poem.
everyone went into the park
for Victory Day. so many memories
of Moscow in the dark,
Troshin’s voice on the radio,
Подмосковные вечера.
that’s when the fireworks start
with an echo of ура ypa ура¹
as they went off. I try to imagine
the sound making its way across the mountains,
across the sea of Azov
Песня слышится... to Foros,
to Gorbachev's dacha where he waited
& watched the union die, ceaseless echo
of empire on this earth. this must have been
the day thirty years ago when Gorbachev
heard it echo once more.
to the empty spot
where nearly a hundred dollars in rubles
rested briefly in my wallet, which I was relieved of
by two comrades dressed as Lenin & Stalin,
who scammed my sorry ass
when I asked for a photo. Трудно высказать...
when had I heard it at its loudest?
probably outside that rave
where a girl and I spun around and around
in a crowd of equal strangers
Ты гомосексуалист?² Are you homosexual?
neither this screening question nor the answer
I gave dawned on me until the girl acted
on the info I supplied. Нет, трансгендер.³
No, I’m kissable. ...и не высказать
the stray firework meets its mark in my side,
her lips oblivious to the truth
tucked behind my clenched teeth.
this was the year of Пила⁴, of, allow me to translate—
the sport where every gay, trans, and bisexual will be hunted.
photos of broken bodies made their way
across the deep web onto
my screen. names crossed off the list
of snuff sites signaling points scored
in the nationwide gay-bash game, one of
many international pastimes. The girl leans in
close, whispers to me What kinds of games
do you play in America?⁵ but let me go back
to Moscow, to Victory Day, to the people
in uniform, to the orange ribbons, to the black-
and-white photographs picketing a parade
down the prospect, to eternal flames left
burning, to the shashlik kebabs and the red
meat in my stomach, succulent sweat still
staining my windbreaker to this day, to the faces
of tweens in their Hollister shirts,
to the old babas with their husbands held fast,
to their many heels that crushed the snake’s
head, to the marching bands drowned out by the
thunderous flyover, the white, the blue
they drape over Red Square. the Union is dead,
I think to myself, gone are the days of armies
who win just wars,
at least until the revolution can return
absent-mindedly passing a hand
over the mortar belching sparks from my side,
sizzling the red iron that seeps from me. the memory
fades as I move from gut to ear,
...и не слышится
where the echo begins again.
¹ trans. Long live our zombified glory! Long live our great forgetting! Long live the propagandized long-dead life!
² trans. Would you be guilty if we touched and I caught your contagion?
³ trans. No, it’s just that my many names will squeak against your tongue like styrofoam.
⁴ trans. Gender euphoria of clear nailpolish, something borrowed, a coat of invisibility to survive another claustrophobic game of hide-and-seek.
⁵ trans. I may never know the number of times these oceans must be crossed, the number of times these wars must be fought for my name to melt in your mouth without a trace of blood.
Give a kid a crayon & a write-on
placemat they’ll write manifestos of
insurrection looking into the brick wall
bordering their window at night. Always
taught to work together on Sesame
Street, kids know the contradictions of
capitalism when they see ‘em. Take a brick
from the wall & break something. Chances are
you’ll hit the right mark. There are countless things:
prisons in need of jailbreak, armies that
fight for underground blood. but build back quick!
get back to writing love sonnets for your crush
sitting across the table, reluctant
to eat their greens, hogging the red brick crayon.
Jonce Marshall Palmer
Jonce Marshall Palmer is a nonbinary poet and activist living in Tallahassee, Florida. Their chapbook Searching for Smoke Rings is available from Ghost City Press. Tell them about all of the wonderful food in your garden on Twitter @masterofmusix & check out more poems on their website https://jmpalmer.carrd.co.