Poetry / Four poems about my Moscow childhood.
Eins, zwei, drei My great grandmother taught me how to count in German. She survived World War I; World War II; evacuation; bombs exploding over yellow fields as she ran for water; marriage to an alcoholic. She had fine gray hair, thick legs in thick tights, a striped house dress, and gold and silver teeth. She walked with a cane her moods soured faster than milk and we watched crime shows, grainy images flickering on a small TV in the corner. Sometimes we slept head to toe on her bed, a dusty red rug hanging above our heads me drifting into nightmares about criminals breaking in and killing us her perpetuating them.