Matvei Yankelevich

I never asked to be winter-colored, just as
I’ve gained no interest laying my claims to
genocides of my peoples. And though I was
nearly exterminated, when I make for a caffé
with light friends, I don’t worry: the owner’s
arms of private property somehow extend
to shield us paying patrons, while we are.
Such times I briefly feel atop a world
that turns for each, though not for everyone.
In this slant light, forgetting edges, I assume
my rounded seat at my imagined table. It's
like my name, “a gift of god," to sign it
in the margin of the luxury to choose.