Tsar Bomba

Tsar Bomba

Nabokov wasn't murdered. He didn't shoot his
brother, steal his parents' will, impersonate
a woman in order to escape Serbian occupation
of Zembla. Nabokov, called Tsar Bomba by admirers,
was never in St. Petersburg the night they found
the royal jewels. He never played ping-pong with
Momar Khadafi, though once they bowled together
and Momar approached a perfect game.

Tsar Bomba spoke French, Russian and English,
but had trouble understanding the lyrics to popular songs.
He never worked in a bank, never watched other
people's money flow through the door while his head
bulged from the tie, never lobbied congressmen
who stank of Aqua Velva and dumb sarcasm.

Tsar Bomba taught, surrounded by bored, admiring
boys, girls, etc. He enjoyed (watching) dance,
played a lyre crudely, existed on a diet of oatmeal,
broccoli and cashews, abhorred squash (the game)
and lived in consummate fear of succumbing
to the dementia which claimed his uncle Namesake.

He hated Shakespeare, hated the man's style,
his ruffled pantaloons, the easy way he had with
strangers— hated all actors, hated people who wrote
nutritional information on cereal boxes,
ran hot and cold towards food packaging designers,
loved watching butterflies writhe when his pin
entered their bodies.

Nabokov's grandfather was a banker,
his father a politician.
After his brother died in the camps,
Nabokov never went back to Zembla.
Long, long after his pamphlets faded from popularity,
he sat, late nights, staring at their yellowing covers,
muttering over the fact of their staples, wishing
all things were joined and held together through entropy,
never steel, but knowing for this,
if nothing else, he was a fool.



CL Bledsoe

Posted over on War Papers