As the future ripens in the past... a terrible festival of dead leaves —Anna Akhmatova The trees talk quietly among themselves the thrush sings its brown song brushed with blue the roses from the bodega open in the vase and under the streetlight the long shadows tarnishing the day as we know it—if I ask for a stone you give me a stone, if I ask for water I do not get water, everything I love weighted and found wanting, as if the world knew how to give answers to questions. In the long generous shadow of history, I wake and wonder how long it can go on, my lips touching your ear, asking, what are you thinking— while in the capital the lion stalks his cage and on the veld the scorched banyans bend under their fruit, the camps charred, no one to pick it. A long time ago, after months when death came so quickly to us it was as if we had written an invitation, crows settled in the ghost trees. There is my mother, you said, and my father. It goes on. Copyright © 2017 Cynthia Zarin. Used with permission of the author. |
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