rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Dance On Air

It's very strange walking through this mundane world of suburban houses and shops and parking lots with the feeling that there is nothing but uncertainty here. It all seems so bland on the edge of the abyss. I go to K-mart and buy two more shirts and a lightweight hoodie and a moderately light jacket and carry them home to this strange place past dogs barking at me from behind chain link fences while cars speed by on the street.

Everything is at once commonplace and not quite real. I feel like a cartoon character who has run off a cliff, looks down and realizes he is in midair, but I don't fall, I just keep walking. I know I'm bound to plunge to my death, but it just doesn't matter whether it happens or not. I was never going to catch that roadrunner anyway.




Sunday Verse



Dancing In Odessa


by Ilya Kaminsky


We lived north of the future, days opened
letters with a child's signature, a raspberry, a page of sky.
My grandmother threw tomatoes
from her balcony, she pulled imagination like a blanket
over my head. I painted
my mother's face. She understood
loneliness, hid the dead in the earth like partisans.

The night undressed us (I counted
its pulse) my mother danced, she filled the past
with peaches, casseroles. At this, my doctor laughed, his granddaughter
touched my eyelid—I kissed
the back of her knee. The city trembled,
a ghost-ship setting sail.
And my classmate invented twenty names for Jew.
He was an angel, he had no name,
we wrestled, yes. My grandfathers fought

the German tanks on tractors, I kept a suitcase full
of Brodsky’s poems. The city trembled,
a ghost-ship setting sail.
At night, I woke to whisper: yes, we lived.

We lived, yes, don’t say it was a dream.
At the local factory, my father
took a handful of snow, put it in my mouth.
The sun began a routine narration,
whitening their bodies: mother, father dancing, moving
as the darkness spoke behind them.
It was April. The sun washed the balconies, April.

I retell the story the light etches
into my hand: Little book, go to the city without me.
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