from my Russian friend, Dasha,
in a while.
i worry about her.
the last picture
she sent to me was of her
ice fishing.
sitting over a hole
in the ice, smoking a cigarette
with a look of
disgust on her face.
i ask her about the war,
but she says
she can't talk about it.
she only says that all the men
are gone
and that the grave yards are full.
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