– 48 –

Prey

I was daydreaming about wiping out the whole school
I was rehearsing and perfecting the ‘gentle giant’ approach
Rebellious and defiant, had no ambition
Death is a beginning, it's beautiful

I swore I never shot at a windowless wall
I was calm and denied, and was allowed to drive away
and killed a young bride, inconclusively
It's sad, but I don't live there anymore

Not like you'd expect—real dark, red blood
Humid in the city known for its beer
I was wrestling with a list, perhaps posing as a cop
and I wrapped my fingers around your throat. Did you panic?

I'm not an expert, I don't know the terminology
They were looking for a guy who was ghoulish or foamed
It's a slow road with a lot of curves
Maybe I should have toyed with her more

– 49 –

Usual Rosettes

Once, twice. Today, tomorrow. There will always be a limit. Marc Chagall
early flowers caused the frost, but the plane tree
threw its shadow, and the lilac bush stood cool,
shocking the house like fresh linen. My father
supported my mother in such precautions.
They quarrelled and broke, no matter how
it simplified things, and her large white skin
was smooth—sweet though forbidden. I could
make a lake of the dusty bundles that held
everything in life for me—the dour wallpaper
always bulging at the seams, the kitchen
cupboards of pine without knots, the hurled
unbreakable plates on the floor. The street below
had just begun to heal. Strange to come away
from the lamplit, the knife grinders calling out,
deafening the empire. I loved the fireworks,
but I needed to be saved from myself. Cracks
demoralised our little house. Father surfaced again
when the fortune was lost, and mother rained
into every room, proudly hampering herself
while we ate a dark soup. Yes, in the past
everything is beautiful, like a twilight where
water would flow very slowly—the chastenings,
the bread, the pallor; the fires I started
so they could not see me cry. I played a game
called ‘Wreck Everything’, though I dressed
in silks and delicately nurtured thanks.
but now I'm frightened of another sort of ruin,
and the orioles nest someplace else.

– 50 –

The True Dark Town

The snows were melting but I wanted to speak.
Swollen and undressed, filling the roads.
The mountain, so beautiful. We were afraid.
Death buttoned my coat.

I smelled their odour when they came
down the incoherent paths of the mountain.
The petals of the flower were hushed.
It's the blood from that night.

a child has sheltered her books with her body.
a man was seen hoarding. Who can be sure?
This is the only thing I have rescued.
It's pitiful.

When the rain came, when they opened fire.
Such trifles as the noise of stars.
I had no idea the dead were so heavy.
It's autumn now.

The past will be a bitter land.
I do not trust the face of my father.
The wind, they say, is going to blow till the end.
The fleas are hungry.