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Sunday, February 12, 2017

I have not cried out against the crimes of my country

The Tongues We Speak:

Escaped from those burning buildings, the past,
What balance can any of us hope for?
 
I was comparing lipsticks
The day Nagasaki vanished.
 
The day Solzhenitsyn disappeared into the Gulag
I was attending a cocktail party.
 
Perhaps there are only ashes in my handbag.
 
A man at the corner of Broadway and Forty-Second Street
Tried to sweep me into a trash barrel and I almost agreed.
 
Already the dried blood was sifting along my wrists.
 
Already my own hands
Were tightening around my throat
 
 
But Sorrow saved me, Sorrow gave me an image
Of bombs like human tears watering the world’s gardens.
 
How could I not answer?
 
Since then I have been planting words
In every windowbox, poking them to grow up.
 
What’s God, That he should be mindful of me?

Patricia Goedicke.

ntodd

February 12, 2017 | Permalink

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