December 1989
With a loud bang,
I’m off
and zoom through the air,
death’s faithful bee.
Was I meant
for someone else?
Or was the sniper startled
by her domestic gestures
at the top floor?
It doesn’t matter now.
A soft splash
into her flesh
and I’m in.
Easy.
The body breathes
and folds
and the shirts billow
and flap
their white,
surrendered sleeves.
December 1989
Mourning black
were the women’s headscarves,
like crows perched on their heads,
and the graffiti smeared on walls:
“Peace to you,
our dead.”
We colored the air
red-yellow-blue
with chants
and …
Let me out, let me out,
the wine begs when I open the cellar.
I turn on the barrel’s faucet
and fill the pot with its slippery,
slinky eyes.
On the stove, …
Looking for your father’s grave,
we walk around
and read the names carved on crosses.
You recognize neighbors,
a cousin—
Old Neculai dead?
His son, too, at 50?
Weeds tangled,
fiery cosmos …
