We're having a chilly night tonight, but not as chilly as it will be Sunday night, when a record low temperature for the date is expected. I should probably dig out the electric blanket. I was going to wash it during the summer but never got around to it. The instructions say it should be hung out to dry, not put into a dryer, but I have no place to hang it. The only place it might fit would be over the bathtub shower curtain rod, but a wet blanket is so heavy I'm afraid it would damage the flimsy rod. I suppose I'll end up just letting it remain soiled.
Right now there is a very slight breeze, barely enough to rustle the leaves of the fence bush, but this afternoon it is expected to get very windy, with the wind coming from the northwest. That means it might get smoky again, since there is still good-sized fire in that direction. This will be the strongest wind yet this year, with gusts up to 70 mph in some areas, so the fire danger will be considerable. The wind will be only slightly less on Monday, but it should gt back down to something closer to normal by Tuesday, when it will also be getting hotter again, getting back up above 80 degrees. Residual summer clinging to our days like the faint smell of smoke clinging to our clothes.
I wonder if I'll be on edge today, as I was Saturday? It seems almost normal now, but I still don't like it. At this point I'm not convinced I'll ever be relaxed again. I barely remember what it was like.
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.