My hosts in Moscow thought I was RussianBecause my surname ends in s-k-yAnd is identical to the names ofFamous Russian historical figures, streets, parks, theaters, stadiums.Two generations agoMy family blood ran in a small village near Minsk,Where relatives fought through pogroms and other conflicts.So I suppose I am Russian,Though I don't speak the languageNor worship vodka.But Moscow,Cold and foreign,Seemed welcoming and familiar.I ate at a restaurant with my last name above the door,Where I was treated like a celebrity,An expatriate returned in triumph.The owner asked if I wanted cognac.I declined, but that meant nothing.A squat bottle emblazoned with my name was thrust at meDespite my protestations.I drank until I couldn't see,Until I understood the waiter when he saidUntil he invited me to, a steam bath.He was just being friendly but I managed to decline inFear, self-doubt and inferiority,And so became a true Muscovite.© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012