This poem was written shortly before the plebiscite to change the Russian Constitution which was held in Russia from 25 June – 1 July 2020.
Splotchy crimson bulb, throbbing next to my collarbone. In the mirror, it looked like a volcano from space. I drew a shaking finger to nudge it, but, in a moment of clarity, smacked the skin and it disappeared.
My hands gripped to the railing, I peered down at the ancient brickwork laid out in the dimensions of a house. My fingers twitched as the suburban road stretched on ahead of me in the middle of the fresh, morning mist which mingled with the scent of a bit tongue splashed across the dashboard, dribbled down soft flesh onto the stone blocks below.
Have you ever had a travel experience so significant that it left an indelible scar upon your life for over a decade? My first visit to Oradour-sur-Glane did just that.
What was left of the Berlin Wall wasn’t much to see.