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--- A N Y S S A   K I M


“Dushinka” was her daughter, the dear one she propagated through a language of firsts and onlys and I was “Tovarish” “What does that mean?” “Bitter radish” they’d reply, both she and Baba laughing, inhaling hard through dank smoke cylinders, steam erupting from boiling consommé beneath pale sheaths of flesh, slowly turning cold to vodka, pulsing through borscht blood Birthday cards every year left on the table “With love” beneath foreign subtitles: “To my daughter” “To my granddaughter” “To my niece” a mysterious day, like a dumb hand, scribbles out misappropriated sentiments and names meant for the birth child “Tovarish! Why did you hide the card?” I slip a side-glance to the Korean calendar given by the grocers down the block its empty dozen egg months hung on pages of broken shells, yearning anew through fiction of mornings, afternoons, and the final hard truth of nights

© crossconnect, inc 1995-2004 |
published in association with the |
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