Is there sour cream? 

Yes, it's in the fridge.

Have you put meat in my bowl?

No, I know you don’t like it.

Mama please don't put dill in mine. 

She swipes green threads into her bowl - a finishing touch 

knife scraping on a wooden chopping board stained

like her hands stained fuchsia

which place home on the sunshine tablecloth.

Steam rises, it warms my face

leaving a pattern of dew - like in that lullaby

on my cheeks.

I play with my reflection in the spoon

before dipping it into сметана

before dipping it into борщ.

I dip buttered bread into the elixir

soaking up liquid which I suck on before chewing

I slurp cabbage, carrot, beetroot, potato

I'm a child. I talk with my mouth full. 

Where's the sour cream?

I put it on the table or the counter or…

I don’t like cooking meat 

and I'll never buy dill.

I brew an imitation of your love 

towering over a cauldron tossing vegetables 

that take half an hour to prepare 

scattered in churning, bubbling broth 

playing pretend with confidence.

My hands, my nails, my kitchen stained 

with splatters of beetroot tears, beetroot blood.

I wait an hour to eat. 

I bring a bowl, bread, sour cream, my laptop, a spoon

and recharge, feasting on your embrace.

Alone I slurp, I talk to myself, talk over the TV show

talk to your smiling face on my phone screen.

You tell me the борщ looks good,

you suggest cutting the vegetables smaller.

I'll try that next time, I say, and keep eating.