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269
1991
Let ’s take an ordinary village in this year,
which will later become unique
in our recollections about childhood.
There’s an ordinary—for that time—village club
where they screen films about Bruce Lee
on a VCR. The elections were also held there—
an absurdist ritual in the lobby; colorful booths,
red and blue, were set up; this act was as mysterious
as the disco. The booths were spread out,
people scurried inside. The results of referendum
were published the next day on the door
of the village store that sold foodstuffs:
two people were against the country’s
separating from the Union of fraternal nations.
Everyone repeated their last name, that re-settled family
of Russian-speaking paramedics, and now in my memory
the announcement board is a board of shame,
yet actually, no war broke out
and you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.