Part Three: Keep Singing Vera Lynn
Even more beautiful than the rubble
you will be the flame
that would have been put to the newspaper
in the counterpoint of bombs
i will go right up to you
your lips will have the color
of sand mixed with blood
the forgotten dead leaves of winter
will snap apart with the sound
of bodies falling from a skyscraper
and i will take your hand
like you would grab a flag
rippling in the wind
*
*
the sheets fold back on themselves
surface of the desert whose dust is lifted
in the noise of the blades
in the distance the shadow cast
floats under the dunes
like trees bleached by the sea
vague allusion to death
of what we could otherwise imagine to be
skin gone slack
when the loose weave of the sand
gives away the shape
of the last shooter
we must learn though
despite the intoxicating odor of the cartridges
and the delicacy of the fallen figure
we must learn
to find
in his deepest hiding places
the contours of the enemy within
*
*
the trains fall from bridges
like in a poem
forgotten by all
or nearly all
in any case it is too late
to talk poetry
for a long while the overpasses
have ceased to convey the dead
yet they are there somewhere
drying before the afternoon program
and even if the concrete cracks
under the weight of refrigerated trucks
we must now think
of transporting the essential
*
*
in the suburbs sleep former dictators
we find them in the morning wearing tank tops
drinking coffee or reading the newspaper
they know that history
won’t come looking for them
the straight and orderly rows of alleys are like a piano
on which children play without getting older
the road is well-paved
the trees always flowering
death can take
no further the shit and cesspits
no further the bullets and walls
the clock hands fall off in the wind
you have to cross the room to get to the fridge
and rediscover the morning light
the scent of the fallen clock hands
pervades like a carpet of evergreen needles
time is carrion and the lawn is so beautiful
when it has the length of a pinky finger
*
*
when all the coves
have been swallowed
nothing will remain
of these past moments
from hospital room
to hospital room
like always, all is well
they published the face
of the terrorists in the newspaper
the memorial monument
is in the middle of a parking lot
where you meet no one but old men
and more old men
who then planted
the white crosses
alongside the roads
that will later watch over
the unknown soldiers
*
*
she told herself that
the crazy shooters
never targeted
supermarkets
you must know how to taste
the sudden peace
in the quiet coolness
of the meat department
*
*
you walk through a corridor
enveloped by institutional lighting
a surrounding green halo
from suspended ceilings
beneath your steps the sappers keep busy
you will go to the very end
without ever feeling
the emptiness
yet they dig under your desk
they dig under the dance floor
and under the coffee table
under your bed and under your garden
under your television and the cat’s bowl
under the cafeteria and the tapas bar
they dig
under each destination vacation
and under each quality time
night and day they dig
until it makes them forget
to set the landmines
*
*
a girl held her teeth
in her hands
like the pearls
of a broken necklace
yet even without her teeth
she was beautiful
in the unbreathable air
of Victoriaville
someone had carefully placed
pots of flowers
along the boulevard median
despite the gas
and the nervous flight
of helicopters
despite the shields
and the sound of rubber
bullets that pierced the crowd
everything stood still
from Walmart to lampposts
from Tim Hortons to the burst of geraniums
planted there by a depressed urbanist
while the dream of rioters
fell between the white lines
like enamel outlined
on asphalt
*
*
spring no longer exists
and the room is our secret base
from where we pilot our drones
a jail where torturers hide
the last fortified camp
of forgotten campaigns
deep in shapeless country
where even the blood has no smell
a television left on shows
tanks driving down Sebastopol
you can hear them
they sing
our enemies will disappear
like dew in the sun
our enemies will disappear and
we no longer truly know
what comes next
or who is not
the enemy
we will go to the edge of cracked roads
where lie the carcasses of cars
there the children have teeth
like nail polish
they live under tin roofs
and go out at night
to burn their trash
in the smell of plastic
the sky will be the color of a wolfhound
and we will finally see what’s left of the stars
like others go to the air pageant
in the hope of seeing a plane
crash
*
*
we will be savages
eat all the birds in the sky
add mistakes to the newspaper
smash the school windows
to make ourselves living necklaces
with the class hamsters
we will burn the Olympic stadium
steal others’ dogs
to make our army
warm in the woven fabric of radars
while the planes
disappear in mid-flight
Part Four: Suite for Bomber Harris
they say that under the ruins of Hamburg
life was everywhere
amidst the buzzing of flies
rats as big as dogs
finally emerged from the rubble
next came the wheatgrass the brambles
and the flowers
more flowers
than you could ever need
*
how beautiful
the memories of happy wars
*
in Spinazzola, Richard Hugo dreams
of bombers
*
*
high above Villach
covered in smoke from the bombs
his tongue trembles
I do not know how anyone can tremble
above Villach
all I can remember
is a terrace on the Drava
with Austrian tourists
*
years earlier
i see myself
in the bookstore
at the mall
an old man explains
how he campaigned
in Europe and abroad
with fear in his gut
and the light from explosions
to warm himself
i know
he did not speak to me
about light
*
in the low point of my war years I think of you
Bomber Harris
of you and the song that said
we would burn them all
I think of you
through the prolongation of buried wars
while we drink and drink
brushing death seated at the table
who makes sweet eyes
at a girl
whose name I forget
I would like to think that she lays dormant in us all
like the plague at the bottom of drawers
when everything is insolvent
and poems
speak only
of poetry
*
for you Bomber Harris
for those who will follow
the world will need it to dig up the bodies
even if we have rejected everything to the limits and beyond
until the death toll
is no longer known
*
for you Bomber Harris
even if forests grow over our aerodromes
we will burn whole villages
and dance on their ashes
we will poke out the eyes of girl-mothers
close our doors to the dreadful
for you Bomber Harris
even on rainy days
we will seek what we dream
*
this brings me back to Villach
where there was something else
other than Austrian tourists
*
i know I always lie for you
Bomber Harris
when the ruin, completed
by braids of wisteria
brings me back to the Drava terrace
and the eyes of a Polish woman
I know I always lie for you
Bomber Harris
there was no wisteria
just a Polish woman, and even then
*
the world burns
and I squeeze my eyes shut
until my face is wracked with tension
for you Bomber Harris
for your sons for your brothers for your dogs
for all that you might invoke
in the moments of pomp
even if there is no rhyme nor reason
for neither words nor bombs
for you Bomber Harris
despite rats and flies
despite death and old men
we have to forget
even everything, including the weight of numbers