My three Russian mothers were the ring around the bathtub left after the Tsarina’s soak.
My three Russian mothers were boot scuffs under the table.
My three Russian mothers were always shelling beans, laughing at Father’s 9 fingers.
My three Russian mothers were there when it all began, but just after it started, and somewhere near the back.
My three Russian mothers had never seen Hamlet.
My three Russian mothers were look-outs at the bear fights.
My three Russian mothers loved beet sherbert floats.
My three Russian mothers won three-legged races, but I never heard one of them sing while each was by herself.
My three Russian mothers strangled all hints of longing.
My three Russian mothers were the smoke from a landfill fire.
My three Russian mothers were always sharing a bowl.
