My grandmother would sip a juice glass
of Dubonnet—dark purplish red, color
of her identical twin sister’s lips, the one
who stayed behind in Russia—every night
as she prepared the roast, Mike Douglas
blasting on the television, my grandfather snoring,
the apartment a swirl of garlic, chicken fat,
boiled secrets, longing flooding the rooms
like sunlight. Once she offered me a taste:
Some people like it with a twist of lemon,
but I like it plain. I was seven. My tongue burned
through the sweetness. I floated into the next room
without moving. I would dress up in her black
cloth cape, sequined ladybug pin, clump around
in her tiny pumps. She was the size of Thumbelina.
I remember the warm baths, splashes of Jean Nate,
the pink chenille bathrobe, photo of them as girls
hanging in the dark hallway. My grandmother
told me her name just once: “Tanya,” this identical her,
living on the other side of the world, another Nana saying goodnight to another me.