← v15n2, Fall 2016Poetry · 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.
