Wild Fields

White salo, green gooseberries,

jars of condensed milk dressed in blue and white,

the boiled and chopped up tongues of cows

and the sour cherries more red than red,

chicken plov, plov Samarkand,

plov yellow and fragrant staining my hands,

fried syrniki speckled with red and purple berries,

towers of sunflower oil,

and the crowds, gold-toothed, sharp-elbowed,

that I must jostle

to reach the spring, summer, winter salads,

each in its mayonnaise bath.

Listen, when I die, bury me

in a Brighton Beach grocery.

Lay me down between two slices of black bread.

Plant me by the young garlic.

Cut someone in the mourners’ line

without apology, and scatter over me

some garlic, garlic and dill.