(36) Pavel Frolov: Moscow Apartment
1
Sometimes I dream
of the Apartment I grew up in
One-Twenty, Prospect of Peace
City of Moscow
17 story
1950s Stalinka
Two Towers like a castle
a grocery market
used to be up front;
for residents three street doors:
in the back and
on each side –
the back is where I entered
the back is also where
tall trucks unloaded produce
fruits and vegetables
of the second freshness
on occasion, smell of rot
often in these dreams
don’t even make it to my floor
to unlock one of the four doors
don’t run into any neighbors
Instead stuck in the lobby
downstairs, staring at my mailbox –
full of childhood toys and
clothes my mother sewed me –
so, I climb inside
the mailbox, and
there is a cave…
sometimes that wakes me up
2
other times I’m stuck
inside an elevator
the dungy one of the two
never reaching my fourth floor
There were two elevators:
one large and dungy
with a double-door –
it stopped on regular floors; another –
small and dimly lit
with just a single door – it stopped
in between the floors:
I liked to hop
on down from
in between the fifth
and fourth
so, when I’m stuck inside the dungy elevator
behind that double-door
inside the smell of urine
and cheap vodka…
sometimes that wakes me up
3
In another dream
I make it to the fourth floor
but the wrong apartment numbers on the door –
fifty, not one-forty-five
I knock and someone unlocks –
a big fat cat
stands on its paws and
curses me in Russian
I dash downstairs
passing Anarchist delinquents
who sit on windowsills
between the floors
and sniff strong glue – a Russian household
brand called Moment
they leave behind squeezed out tubes
and clear plastic bags they put
on their heads...
that part wakes me up
I never tried this Moment
But used to sneak my stepdad’s Dunhills
Out the window in between
the fifth and
the fourth floor
when I was thirteen
4
Once I dreamt
I made it back inside
the apartment
was the same
as I remembered:
the long and
narrow hallway rambled
past the stern Front Door
on the right: the bedroom blur
behind a stained-glass door,
the living room – its armoire wall
further down
the hallway
up the corner with a
backed up garbage chute
next to an always locked Back Door,
and further down
the hallway – on the left:
a water closet and a bathroom
yes! Not one but two! adjacent rooms –
in the floor and in the ceiling
still were holes on each side
of the wall between
where haunted-looking toilet stood
and where sink and tub
both withered uninvitingly
Hot! Hot! water pipes were missing
like a metaphor for Soviet life
and finally, the kitchen
arid but unchanged
inside the fridge were leftovers –
some did not belong to time and place
so, I washed and peeled a few
potatoes with a knife and boiled them
on the stove
just like I used to as a kid
In the living room –
I sat on that green couch
with wooden handles on each side
its huge firm cushions
I used to put aside and sleep on
the foldout mattress
for a year before I’d left for New York
I fast-forwarded
some VHS tapes –
80s blockbusters bootlegs
Badly dubbed in Russian
Rocky, Aliens, Terminator
Played some early 90s CDs
on the giant Panasonic boom-box
Take That, Roxette, Vaya Con Dios
Pet Shop Boys suggest – Go West
I fell asleep on the couch and
when I woke up (still inside the dream)
I saw that it got dark
Outside through the window
so, I strolled
the long and
narrow hallway
where I used to hear at night
my late Great-Grandmother’s
Footsteps
after she had
Passed
the Big Apartment
down the Line to me and my mother
and later when
the Iron Curtain colla–
psed, we
kept it
through privatizations
that swept over
the newborn Russian
Federation
I heard no footsteps
as I strolled
the long and
narrow hallway that time
but instead – a commotion on the stairs
I wondered if an anarchist delinquents’ party
was inviting itself in but no
nobody was behind the door
so down the windy steps
I floated into the dark lobby
where someone twisted out
the lightbulbs from the ceiling
dropped one
running outside and
left ajar the street door
so bright daylight
spill –
blinding
that’s when I woke up in Brooklyn.
Originally from Moscow, Russia, Pavel Frolov is a queer-identified New York City-based performer and writer. He recently completed his BA in Communication at CUNY Brooklyn College. Pavel's two recent poems, "The Fall" and "Quiet Cars" have appeared in Beyond Words and Ariel's Dream literary journals.
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