We Lived Happily During the War
And when they bombed other people’s houses, we
protested
but not enough, we opposed them but not
enough. I was
in my bed, around my bed America
was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.
I took a chair outside and watched the sun.
In the sixth month
of a disastrous reign in the house of money
in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money,
our great country of money, we (forgive us)
lived happily during the war.
Dancing in Odessa
In a city ruled jointly by doves and crows, doves covered the main
district, and crows the market. A deaf boy counted how many birds there
were in his neighbor’s backyard, producing a four-digit number. He dialed
the number and confessed his love to the voice on the line.
My secret: at the age of four I became deaf. When I lost my hearing, I
began to see voices. On a crowded trolley, a one-armed man said that my
life would be mysteriously linked to the history of my country. Yet my
country cannot be found, its citizens meet in a dream to conduct elections.
He did not describe their faces, only a few names: Roland, Aladdin, Sinbad.
In Praise of Laughter
Where days bend and straighten
in a city that belongs to no nation
but all the nations of wind,
she spoke the speech of poplar trees—
her ears trembling as she spoke, my Aunt Rose
composed odes to barbershops, drugstores.
Her soul walking on two feet, the soul or no soul, a child’s
allowance,
she loved street musicians and knew
that my grandfather composed lectures on the supply
and demand of clouds in our country:
the State declared him an enemy of the people.
He ran after a train with tomatoes in his coat
and danced naked on the table in front of our house—
he was shot, and my grandmother raped
by the public prosecutor, who stuck his pen in her vagina,
the pen which signed people off for twenty years.
But in the secret history of anger—one man's silence
lives in the bodies of others—as we dance to keep from falling,
between the doctor and the prosecutor:
my family, the people of Odessa,
women with huge breasts, old men naive and childlike,
all our words, heaps of burning feathers
that rise and rise with each retelling.
