The wintry weather in Texas is making me think about the former Soviet Union and our life some years ago. I remember that period as the “best and worst of times.” I wrote the poem below in St. Petersburg.
Last Russian Czar’s family bones unearthed
in cold Russian woods,
corrupted, degraded, defiled
but proved royal bloodlines by DNA matching
of England’s Prince Philip,
a distant relative.
I mentioned to
Andre, from St. Petersburg,
how peculiar to prove
or disprove DNA with such corrupt samples.
DNA testing also
disproved the blood connection
of self-proclaimed Czar’s daughter, Anastasia,
her blood left
behind for testing, now
she lies buried in the
USA, a proven fraud
according to DNA testing.
Andre’s eyebrows lifted
As I spoke more of DNA testing. Samples of O.J. Simpson’s
(he maybe killed his wife) blood
drops on sidewalk stones
too fresh to prove anything.
Acquitted in America,
he lives in luxury. Blood
absent of DNA
stain our hands.
While I told Andre my thoughts
on DNA proofs, he blinked at me in fear,
and said I could be thrown in prison
five years for speaking about the Czar’s bones,
and he for ten years for listening.