The Victory Day in Moscow When I Colonized a Little Girl

This year there is no finale.  The stray dogs near
the metro have grown tired of barking
at the light that turns the fountains gold.
Vendors throw them arm-shaped meat

deemed unsellable.  In the morning,
I hear the orchestras disordered by firecrackers;
the airshow is veiled by rain.  While Swan Lake
plays inside the Bolshoi for German tourists,

security watches dignitaries from the roof
through sniper lenses.  Laura Bush waves
in her limo, driving to the airport,
and the Russians cheer.  Old women

kneeling in Red Square refuse my kopeks.
All day, mothers cut roses for children
to give to veterans.  When they can’t find
their heroes, the rivers become littered

with flowers.  I am there to see the soldiers
watching the parade at night with their medals
missing.  The last explosion leaves a stain
of smoke across the Kremlin.  Voices

of Young Pioneers fill the squares
where sickle-shaped groups wave the Soviet
flag into morning.  An eight-year old
girl with eyes lit like our Fourth of July

asks if I think it’s over—would she awake
to the sky on fire in reds and whites and then just reds. 
I lead her by the hand back to the reflecting
pool, pretending not to understand her worry.