NELLE 6 | 2023
She keeps a knife
wrapped in her apron.
She has spent the morning
convincing me Dido Mykola
is dead not living
under her bed or in my closet.
I tell her I saw him last night, his yellowed fingers
slow-opening the Royal Dansk tin
where she hides the after-dinner mints
she keeps for only me.
What if the Russians come?
I ask. We live in Pennsylvania.
It's the 90s.
World War II ended long ago . . . for some.
I am seven,
playing in the pantry
counting aluminum cans:
12 red beets
10 green beans
4 carrots
2 peaches.
Turned to the sink, she answers:
Then I will hide you
in the basement, beneath the stairs,
& dare them to push me.