>>64484991
"Brothers With Knives"
Russia look around, say: “Ah, my brothers, you all still love me, da?”
Raise glass of vodka to air that no one breathe.
Call them republics, family, little cousins of big bear.
But door slam, window close, neighbor dog bark all night.
Kazakh brother smile too wide, counting teeth and borders.
Georgian cousin wave from distance, but hand hide rock.
Baltic sisters pretend not hear knocking at 3 a.m.—
they busy polishing NATO badges like wedding rings.
Russia still shout, “We are one blood!”
but blood is mostly on floor now, not in heart.
Old songs sound different when you sing alone,
and only echo answer, off cracked Lenin statue.
Ukraine, oh Ukraine—Russia cry your name like drunk ex,
say, “Why you move on? I bring gas! I bring pipeline!”
But you change lock, paint house yellow-blue,
and now he sit outside fence, singing sad war lullaby.
Moldova, Armenia, all the rest—
they nod polite, keep distance of one tank-length.
Russia think it is surrounded by brothers,
but forget: every brother grow beard, get job, move out.
Now only ghosts of empire come to dinner,
wearing medals, drinking tears.
Russia toast to love, but world toast to caution.
Family reunion turn into funeral.
And yet—somewhere deep, under frost and pride,
Russia still believe warmth can return,
that maybe one day “brother” mean not “hostage,”
and knocking at door won’t sound like shelling.
