Golden

Tanks crawling through my city,
right there, close, behind the window.
I’m on the floor, face down, buried in
the carpet my brother took his first steps on.
It’s not only scary at twelve, it’s made clear.
Don’t look up. Don’t listen to sounds outside.
Recite memorized poem about Vladimir Ulyanov.
All the statues of Lenin, gold-plated, will have no heads,
or worse, in the morning.
Dragged by ropes off the pedestal, my history,
gold fillings in teeth.