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.
Papillae 