Baba Yaga, barging into
A poem where she doesn't belong,
Runs into my father who
Is looking to slot in a reference
To his sister Edith who, dying as a baby,
Hasn't featured in many poems.
Baba Yaga complains that she lately finds
Her chicken-legged hut cold at night
"Alt ist kalt" my father sympathizes.
He says the warmest blankets
In the world were those his father
Sewed together from scraps.
Blankets like those don't just vanish;
They're no doubt still somewhere.
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