The wintry weather in Texas is making me think about the former Soviet Union and our life some years ago. I remember that period as the “best and worst of times.” I wrote the poem below in St. Petersburg.

DNA Proofs

Last Russian Czar’s family bones unearthed

in cold Russian woods,

corrupted, degraded, defiled

but proved royal bloodlines by DNA matching

of England’s Prince Philip,

a distant relative.

I mentioned to

Andre, from St. Petersburg,

how peculiar to prove

or disprove DNA with such corrupt samples.

DNA testing also

disproved the blood connection

of self-proclaimed Czar’s daughter, Anastasia,

her blood left

behind for testing, now

she lies buried in the

USA, a proven fraud

according to DNA testing.

Andre’s eyebrows lifted

As I spoke more of DNA testing. Samples of O.J. Simpson’s

(he maybe killed his wife) blood

drops on sidewalk stones

too fresh to prove anything.

Acquitted in America,

he lives in luxury. Blood

absent of DNA

stain our hands.

While I told Andre my thoughts

on DNA proofs, he blinked at me in fear,

and said I could be thrown in prison

five years for speaking about the Czar’s bones,

and he for ten years for listening.