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Sunday, February 12, 2017
I have not cried out against the crimes of my country
Escaped from those burning buildings, the past,What balance can any of us hope for?I was comparing lipsticksThe day Nagasaki vanished.The day Solzhenitsyn disappeared into the GulagI was attending a cocktail party.Perhaps there are only ashes in my handbag.A man at the corner of Broadway and Forty-Second StreetTried to sweep me into a trash barrel and I almost agreed.Already the dried blood was sifting along my wrists.Already my own handsWere tightening around my throatBut Sorrow saved me, Sorrow gave me an imageOf bombs like human tears watering the world’s gardens.How could I not answer?Since then I have been planting wordsIn every windowbox, poking them to grow up.What’s God, That he should be mindful of me?
Patricia Goedicke.
ntodd
February 12, 2017 | Permalink