KAZAN, JULY 1957

Public canteen. Bloated flies.

‘After 6 pm no food served’.

Bushes, with something yellowy-violet

that isn’t going to survive.

A palsied veteran, still in army gear,

pokes a finger in my ribs.

‘Scare’? No, it could be ‘spare’.

‘Spare some bread’, he raps.

I let this Deadeye have the bread

left over, and some yellow beer.

He watches with the white bead

he has for a left eye; it can’t see.

Not quite all there, apparently,

he reaches for his borshch using a fork.

It’s nigh on half a century,

and to this day I still backpack

this memory that won’t entirely fade;

it proffers endlessly inside my head

the left cheek of a face –

yellowy-violet, and dead.