A Russian Firebird Lands In France Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

I find myself inside an enclosed ghetto
fenced in by industrial chicken wire.
On the other side, traffic and liberty
circulate at will.

Lining the streets
with utterly decrepit wooden matchstick fronts
all the houses are uninhabited.
I desperately search
for an exit but no matter how much I look
there's none
and with no one around to ask
I feel utterly lost.

From outside the fence
nobody pays attention to my calls for help.
I'm late for my appointment
with the movie director.
She promised an important role
thanks to my multilingualism.

Suddenly I'm sandwiched
in the midst of a massive crowd of strolling actors.
They move along and to my surprise
speak a cultured Russian.
By their distinguished faces I recognize
they belong to the aristocratic class
but not one pays attention to me.

I try moving past them
but the crowding is overwhelming.
I decide to fly and with great exertion I levitate
above the crowd and flutter forward.

The tips of my wings flap
next to the ceiling which complicates matters worse
because right below it
electric wires crisscross indiscriminately.
I avoid them by weaving in between
or by bomb diving.

My progression is painfully slowed
until I reach the front of the crowd and when
I finally land in the film director's feathered lap
I'm a flaming Russian Firebird

She bends over, deep kisses me and out of breath
says my armpits smell like a Frenchman's.
Which verifies my pretentious
Napoleonic leftover lineage on my mother's side.

~~~