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The night before his imprisonment,

after a truly Russian feast,

toasting each course with vodka,

he danced and sang all night.

In the rickshaw at four a.m.,

he wore his Manchurian fur coat

pulled up around his neck

against forty below,

each star frigidly distinct

in foreign constellations.

The chill Gobi Desert wind

blew Japanese sentries in too,

surrounding his house at six a.m.

where he slept like a child

beneath a warm Tibetan carpet—

the man who would be my dad,

who never slept so well again.

 

 

 

Laura Foley is the author of four poetry collections including The Glass Tree, which won the Foreword Book of the Year Award, and Joy Street, which won the Bi-Writer’s Award. Her poems have appeared in journals and magazines including Valparaiso Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, Inquiring Mind, Pulse Magazine, Weatherings, Poetry Nook, Lavender Review, The Mom Egg Review, and many others. www.laurafoley.net.

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