an on-line poetry magazine
for the 21st century
David B Axelrod
THE MEAT OF MY DREAMS
When I dreamed in cyrillic,
I knew I’d finally settled
in, stretched out on my
bed in the shed I’d
converted to an apartment,
the WC still lined with tools
and toilet paper (тоалетна
хартија). Learning to read
took me me beyond Berlitz.
Tired of asking “What kind
of meat in the market today
(какво месо)?” I drove my
Yugo to a farm. Until you’ve
lived somewhere long enough
to buy a cow, you aren’t at home.