It is not Impossible

That my dad and Alexander Pichushkin would have been friends.

Dad spooning even helpings of elk blood into Alex’s mouth

like a painting, like I remember him doing with his friend Sergey

in a cold white kitchen with a cat and a German Shorthaired Pointer

keeping watch.


Dad dancing bishops across a chessboard with his mate

Van Rensburg and his Dumbledore hair. Lips sucked full as if by limpet

shells, hands steady for the sake of his men.


And the last, Tarbo. Who played God with eggshell

dolls and made the soil his lover from the roots. Alex, he composted

blood into the grass, the only way to feed.



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