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r e v o l u t i o n A Kazak too. Two things that the Soviets hated. My father was part of what killed her son and my mother never forgave him for it. My mother had no other family. They had been killed in the collectivization movement in Kazakhstan. She told me her
people did not believe in owning the land. They fought very hard against the Soviets who wanted to own everything. My mother survived because she had a talent. She met my father when she trained as a dancer in Moscow. She could not dance at the Bolshoi because she was short and
A Still Pond Means Certain Suffocation By Phylinda Moore last frigid winter the koi pond was a sacrifice each fish a gilded canvas of mottled orange, flecked gold, and white blotches slipping under an icy crust then slower until the snow brushed from the thick, ice plate unveiled their decorative performance suspended like ornament glass. Phylinda has enjoyed living in Philadelphia for ten years. Visit her website phylindamoore.com for links to more poems.
dark. She became a teacher. She told me not to drink too much red wine if I wanted my skin to be called white. I never do. My skin is lighter than hers. I introduced the American girl to my mother. My mother couldn’t speak English very well. My mother said that I should have the American girl spend the night because it was too late to take the metro back. There were too many beggars sleeping in the tunnels. The drug dealers and the prostitutes would be out. It was too dangerous. “When it was olden days. When it was before. There no beggars. We all starving. Communism treat us all the same. Treat us all terrible.” The American girl slept on the couch that night. Right where Henry Kissinger had sat underneath the dangling lights. She liked being so close to the place where Henry Kissinger had hit his head. My mother told her the story was true about Kissinger hitting his head. She laughed. She liked that I did not lie to her.
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