Yekaterina The Mail Order Bride Poem by Anya AlkayevVolkov

Waking up to the sounds of my mother's squeals of
'You fly to America! A man there wants you! We will not be poor! '
in Russian, of course.

On the plane, flying coach, or rather more like baggage;
Listening to Dima Bilan on my mp3 to pass the time
(what a cutie!)
Why can't i be marrying him?

I'm seventeen. I had friends. I had a life.
(I even had a boyfriend)
and now I had to break up with them,
with my life,
so I could marry a man whose profile picture
was a photo of an
Anime character.

At the airport, got all my luggage (ha, all)
Dima's smooth voice still trickling through
the ridges and swirls in my brain and ears,
still fantasizing a way out.
A man is holding up a sign with poor printing
in cyrillic that says
'YEKATERINA YAKOVLEVICH'
He is pitiful. Fat. Balding.
On his t-shirt is the same Anime character,
though this time surrounded by girls whose proportions
aren't humanly possible.

ENDING 1: what would have happened

I am a slave in this house.
I live for just two reasons:
1. sex
2. cooking
he keeps me in the basement.
No windows, very little heat, just a filthy, stained matress
on the disgusting floor.
Four cement walls keep me here.
Four cement walls and a juggernaut anime fan with a
megalomaniac complex.
Took away my mp3
(no more Dima)
Took away my cellular
(no more calls home)
Took away my clothes
(no more dignity)
Took away my humanity
(no more reason to live)
It's Christmas eve.
(I only know because I am wearing a 'naughty Mrs. Claus' outfit)
If I get my wish tonight
I'll dropp dead.

ENDING 2: what did happen

I glanced back at that blob, that
gelatinous abuser,
reading his mind as his eyes locked onto my body.
(God, I need a shower)
the strains of Dima crooning Ty Dolzhna Ryadom Byt
gave me the courage I needed.
I wouldn't, couldn't let myself fall into his clutches.
To a 'man' like him, I am nothing more than
a doll.
a toy.
an anime character.
a sex-robot.
Which is why, when I saw him start to lurch towards me
I threw my duffel bag over my shoulder
and without looking back
(never look back)
I sprinted in the opposite direction
Like a gazelle in stilettos
(my mother had insisted)
I heard him wheezing and panting to catch up
but I am a dancer and can run forever.

I reached the doors that led out to the busy street
Not knowing what the hell I was doing
I hailed a cab to God Know's Where.

Now it's Christmas Eve
I know because of the kitschy little calender
my husband bought on his way home from work last month.
The apartment is comfortable
My husband is handsome
but more importantly loving, kind, gracious.
The baby is kicking in my womb.
While I gaze out the window at the cars
covered in white,
my husband comes and puts his arms around me
and snow is gently falling outside, quieting the night that surrounds us.