The way a shadow trying to forget itself
hides in light, my father steps 

before a mirror
and tries on this new country. 
The house silent. The kids hours from waking up 

and mistaking the bed beneath them
for their bed. My father slips into the red-blue skin,
zips up each stripe 

and pretends he can breathe through them. 
He poses, wonders if this continent

fits him, and if not
if he can fake it well enough. 

The world will see him in this outfit and be proud, he thinks. 

Him, new man. Him, American. Not homesick, 
no commie.

Bio: Daniel Blokh