← v15n2, Fall 2016
Poetry · Volume 15, Number 2

A foolish moon in a foolish sky

When I fell down

I was laughing that I was in Russia and

exactly the age Lenin had been

at Finland Station and lucky to fall

under the moon and rise without pain

and go on walking toward the little flat

where another “dinner” of beets and

dumplings would be steaming and tea

and Gone with the Wind would again be

playing in garish TV color and Clark Gable,

spitting image of my father at twenty-five,

speaking Russian and I have just been born

into a Cold War that will vanish one day

when he is old and I am no longer really young.