Sun Cross

 

Lavatory aromas seep through the sliding

door that wobbles in its frame. A window slams,

sweat trickles down my forehead

 

Tracks groan, confessing their crimes.

I listen from a fiberglass booth as the compartment

lurches from side to side, crawling to Brezinka.

 

Pyotr pencils “Zytnia” into my journal,

honey vodka I have yet to try. As he writes,

he holds the journal upright to conceal his lips,

 

but his eyes trace something on the page.

Beside me is a woman in her fifties in

a white sundress and oversized sunglasses.

 

They tumble off her head, which cranes

forward from the weight of the camera that

hangs around her neck.

 

Her lipstick is of the shade my Jewish tutor

wore while teaching me Russian, puckering her lips to

accent the syllables as she leaned over the café table,

 

perfume flooding my nostrils with passion fruit.

It was great to learn the language.

She has a husband.

 

I think, as my car grinds along, that her

grandparents would recognize the sound.

The train eases to a stop. When I look

 

through the window behind Pyotr, I notice

a brick wall at the station spray painted with

a red sun cross, “get out” tattooed in English.

 

Pyotr looks up, his hair, golden in the sunshine,

retriever-like. He offers to shake

my hand, but I feel the urge to strike him.

 

I exit the train, a tourist.

 

Domenic Scopa is a philosophy student at Suffolk University. He has been published in several online and print journals and has worked with poets such as: David Ferry, Fred Marchant, and George Kalogeris. Domenic intends to finish his senior year and apply for graduate school with the intention of attaining an MFA in creative writing.

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