My father went to Russia and came back with Russian gifts:
babushka headscarves, black lacquered jewelry boxes,
and nesting dolls that live inside each other like people do.
He bought a Russian army captain’s cap and an olive drab coat
big enough to hide dissenting poets from Pushkin to Pasternak
when the Czar or the communists outlawed opposing thought.
He came back with photos of himself in an rival world,
was bold to ask innocent adversaries to take snapshots of him
at the Hermitage in St. Petersburg, Saint Basil’s on Red Square,
or on the Mayakovskaya subway station platform in Moscow.
He returned home with a taste for borscht, blini, and pelmeni,
the worshipful aroma of burning Russian Orthodox incense,
and the lovely poetry of a longsuffering people.
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Borscht = Russian beet soup
Pelmeni = Russian dumplings
Blini = Russian pancakes