red carpet
laura vladimirova
Cold,
kisses on dove arms,
skinny like the eyes of a starved dancer.
1989, flashbulbs bursting,
sharp shards of lightning.
Red Russian carpet lined the graceless walk.
Closed my eyes,
whispered the image of my father.
Thin wispy lids,
shaken by shrieks of neighbor's sobs.
Crying for the left behind aged parents,
barking cocker spaniels,
carpeted walls,
Grandfather Christmas.
I learned to ride a bike in an Italian shtetl,
baked fresh bread with my light mother,
remembered the taste when I smelled it outside of a Brooklyn bakery.
We painted the door memory,
murdering the present.
Fear not streets paved with parked Pontiacs,
but dirt roads will always look better in the morning.
about the author
Laura Vladimirova was born in the slums of Kiev, Ukraine. Looking to escape religious persecution and their overall poverty, her family gathered their rubles and headed to Brooklyn, NY, where Laura still resides. She has been writing poetry since she first learned how to speak and write in English.
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