"Autumn, Reading Kolyma Tales"
Walking to the tram
while it’s still dark, I cross
the lawn where leaves coil and parch,
autumn’s brittle intimates.
I warm my hand in a pocket,
pawing the book
about the frozen Russian camps.
In one story, a scarf crawls
suddenly across a table,
ambulated by a blight of lice.
It surprises no one
and is no good reason
to give up the scarf.
Deep in a duffle coat, I barely
see my feet, and what I thought
were leaves atop the frost stir
and hop, becoming 20 blackbirds.
Even this early in the season,
mornings are like waking
in another country.
Rows of windows that stood
dim all summer light the street
and the silhouettes of lampshades
like a hundred heads
stare out stunned -
either that, or dull,
unable to be stunned.
© 2007 Sarah J. Sloat
Follow this link to comment
|
|
