Before today, the last open smile in Russia was in a Yevtushenko Poem
In Russia, a smile is like an invitation, for murder, or worse.
Waiting for the bus with one hand in pocket, like some mobster;
Like the men on the stairs of the hospital in The Godfather.
The curl of an end of a lip spells a break in composure:
You’ve let your guard down, and the men, those black bomber jacket men
Who swarm like flies to shit, will pick you off. And you’ll be gone.
In broad daylight, they, will do whatever those men do.
After a New Year’s party, with vodka and all the trimmings,
We danced and sang. We smiled. The cameras flashed, mine included.
All uploaded – I receive a message: those pictures –
They show us smiling. Please remove them.
People we know might see them and think we were enjoying ourselves.
I removed the smiles, leaving only conversation and bottle shots.
This afternoon I boarded a bus, city centre to suburb.
There, sat diagonally from me, was my poor Baba Luda.
She sat in military boots, and worn black and grey bits.
How funny she looked: 70 year old match stick legs
In boots heavy enough to sink her. Ticket reel in hand,
She came right up to me before recognising my face.
I thought it would be awkward. Such a proud woman,
Who only ever took taxis, or begged lifts, was reduced
To such labouring: the 15 hour day of traipsing and collecting
Nineteen roubles off each and every person, on a two door
North Korean 1950’s bus that shook and rattled like a window
On its last hinge in a Siberian snow storm in December.
She looked like paper: her face and hands creased
Like laundry wrung out before it’s been washed.
Her eyes shone first: the creases of so many Siberian winters
Began curling upward around her eyes and mouth;
I couldn’t help myself. We were disarmed though we were not vulnerable.
I carried her smile to the supermarket and showed it to the shop assistant.
She returned it and shared it with the woman standing next to her.
Michael Oliver-Semenov was born in Cardiff, Wales but now resides in central Siberia. Since ditching his career as a banking clerk in 1997 he has published words and poetry in a plethora of magazines, anthologies and journals worldwide, including Blown, The Morning Star, Orbis, Ten of the Best, Wales Arts Review, Mandala Review and Ink Sweat and Tears. He divides his time between growing vegetables at his family dacha, teaching English and reading whatever he can in between lessons.