On Going to Russia to Adopt a Child
I said I’d go with her to the Mohawk Smoke Shop
to buy cigarettes, Marlboro being the brand of choice.
Cartons of them. They were cheaper on the Rez.
“You need them to bribe the officials with,”
she said. “That’s what they told me at the agency.
And I also have to bring 10,000 dollars in United
States currency. I bought a money belt to wear under
my blouse so I can hide all that cash when I go.”
Besides buying the cigarettes, she picked up
some trinkets to use as gifts. When we got back
to my place, I carefully stacked the cartons
of smokes on the kitchen table. They reminded
me of boxed ammunition, ready to be used
whenever necessary.
“Still sure you don’t want to go with me?”
she said. “I’ll pay.”
Even though I’m part Italian, it was another
offer that was easy to refuse. “Have to work, babe.
Can’t afford to take time off. You know that.
We’ve talked about it.”
“I know, but well, I’d really like you to come along.”
Outside some jerk was screeching his tires,
and in some other world, that I imagined as being
next door, we were definitely having a different
conversation. She was a single woman who wanted
to be a mother, so much so, that she said, “Waiting
to adopt a child was almost like being pregnant.”
I sat down for a minute, closed my eyes,
and considered my reply. If I wasn’t careful,
pretty soon she’d be sitting on my lap and calling me daddy.
(2012 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Contest Honorable Mention and published in Paterson Literary Review)
