Pushkin's Blood Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Pushkin’s blood

Those racists made Pushkin colourless, white as milk.
“Look at me” I told them “He was me, a black African.”

They hit me as if I, was heated, ready ore, on anvil:
“He was white; a Russian.”

She, angel, blessing in such time…

Did not take much for her:
“For you and from you, I have gift.”

I wondered…”What is this? ”
Happy she…”I am sure pregnant.”

Years are gone and we are united
We have gone through lot
Soon I get my passport.

But our life is too far, of dreams.
My skin is still same black
She is white.

Her parents handles me like a wet umbrella
Needed but…
I notice when I turn, they roll eyes.
Offices and people, small town
Simple, poor, and inward
Not worse that in Russia but still
These racists
Make me leap into time of Pushkin
And Abram Petrovich Gannibal
I feel them, I can feel.

I am hurt.
I am of their blood and skin.