Riot,
Pogrom and Razzia
You
stare at me and what you see is horrible,
A
thing shrivelled and covered with black layers of pain,
Ageless
and not really alive, you are not even sure
I am
animal or vegetable, maybe a stone shaped by time;
But
when I look at you, my eyes are those of an infant,
Perhaps
a foetus not fully born, something hidden
Before
the first breath of humanity.
I was
placed here out of fear, from the very beginning,
Told
to be silent, not to wriggle, and to wait
Until
we come for you. Then the second time,
They
pushed my shadow aside, and said sh-sh,
my love.
Outside
the loud noises, the shuddering when the door
Was
kicked, then the smack of a whip, the thud
Of
bodies dragged down the steps. Each
season I crept
Further
into myself, swallowed my fears and my hunger,
Adding
layer on layer of apprehension, cold
In
winter, hot in summer, year after year.
Now
finally someone slides the panel, shines
A
light into my face, but I cannot blink
Or
move a finger, none of the many names
I
once had animates my memory.
I am
too afraid to recognize a voice that does not shout.
Weariness and Satiety
Long
ago when life was less wearisome
My
dreams always disappeared with a healthy
Awakening,
all I could remember was I dreamed
And
the day spread out with tasks and chores, as on
A
menu, leaving many choices, some
Accepted,
others disregarded, with stealthy
Options
suddenly arising, as when sunshine beamed
Athwart
the cloudy barrier to the unseen horizon.
My
old-fashioned sentences and archaic hopes
Looped
me through the months and years until
One
illness and another tangled the trajectory,
And I
came tumbling down the ragged slopes
Of
time, injured and coldly humiliated.
There
is nothing now to look forward to, yet still
After
a dreadful sleepless night, I begin to see
The
plum tree laden with sparrows—for hours they’ve waited
For
breakfast on the grass—now
all are sated.
Nightmare
Are we to believe in succubae and
sex
with
lizards, demon foetuses and sips
of
Lysol to be safe and happy, from mex-
ican
rapists and vile viruses, whips
and lashes from our guardians? No checks
and
balances in the halls of power, no lips
to
speak the truth. No little grey cells or flecks
of
rationality, but only pips
of
uncontrolled narcissism? Lex-
icons
of incoherent badinage, like rips
in
the holy veil across the altar of truth, or pecks
by
hysterical parrots screeching news as fake,
or
talons on the surface of a dark malignant lake.
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