A Line Drawn In The Soup Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

I'm sorry or is it excuse me
if I speak Russian with a distant
French accent.

The reason is my two aunties
with whom I spent a lot of time
in Kiev where I was made and

lived soon after my birth.
They spoke to me only in that
tongue. Well, OK, that's also

because a general under
Napoleon fell back and turned
his coat on his leader

by marrying one of my great
grandmothers. Yet I assure you
I never thought I was a snob

until marrying my 4-generations
San Franciscan wife who called
me a French snob whenever I'd be

overly critical of the Americans.
I won't mention how proud she
is upon telling and retelling the

story of when she met in her
grand- mother's home with
Jack London's daughters.

In any case I was especially
critical when I'd observe
Americans in restaurants,

fork in right hand stabbing
their plate as if they were
murdering their mothers-in-law.

Well, it's not my fault if my
tastes run along the
troika-furrowed blue lines

in the snow.
I still dissect the chicken
on my gold- rimmed Bavarian

dinner plate with fork and knife
using my left and right hands
with surgical dexterity.

Maybe I missed my
Hippocratic Corpus calling.
Unlike some of our presidents

who sketch red lines in crumbling
sand. Yes I still like borscht and
shchi and for poetic license that's

where I draw the line with sour
cream separating the beets from
the kapusta.