Our boat reaches the harbor,
a missile gliding into its silo.
Is this “war” really over?
I wait with mama, hunched
beneath her shawl
over the antique samovar,
steeped in worry of our
receipt. Success would be
the best revenge.
A surprisingly peaceful end to a regime
we had hoped would end in a refreshingly
simple mass stabbing.
My country has
and what do you call yours?
At the railing’s edge I can tell that
isn’t as pretty as mama.
Especially with eyes like those,
having seen all walks of our sorrow.