my mother learned to brush her teeth with
communism staring at her through the

bathroom window. she says it was easy
to learn to count because there was so little
of everything, she says ciorba is less salty in america

because there is no one crying into it.
my mother sought refuge in a western city but
communism followed her there, bullet holes
we painted over and cabbage wrapped
around our ankles to stop the swelling.
my mother must be convinced it is safe
to know the names of our neighbors and
invite them to dinner, there is no securitate
following two steps behind as we carry
eggplants and onions home from the market,
but still she keeps her head turned, as if
walking in conversation with her childhood
imaginary friend.