It’s a long drive to the end of the earth.
Ah no, that would be Coney Island.
We look for sea gull action at Brighton beach,
murals too, darker than the Atlantic, where
the paddle surfers were as intrepid
as my brother in the North Sea.
She packed sandwiches, for she knew
I loved smoked salmon in borodinsky bread.
The dark rye was in mourning,
the loss of our social freedoms perhaps,
studded with coriander seeds
like spent ammunition for weapons
discharged all over the world,
but those weren’t our conversations.
Ours were as long as the boardwalk
was insufficient until the wind
had turned us entirely glacial.
Someone remembered mundanities,
a parking meter.
Our clothing, the weight of winter,
but one of us outran the wind,
bracing hungry sea gulls and
people transplanted in time.
An hour late, a handsome cop, I think,
had left me a bright orange love note
that could have been
a little less demanding.
I had my first taste of Borodinsky bread from a store that specialised in Russian and East European food in Queens, New York, after that, at a little bakery in St Petersburg.
I love this bread and make it a point to get it wherever I may be able to find it. If I ever manage to recreate it, I will post the recipe and the photos for certain.