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
Lady Liberty
isn’t as pretty as mama.

Especially with eyes like those,
having seen all walks of our sorrow.


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