Mesopotamia Read online

  and used him to frighten children, who were not scared at all.

  They ran after him onto the old railroad tracks,

  and when he was sick, they pulled birds’ eggs out of nests,

  as if they were taking bulbs out of street lamps.

  I saw him only once, in the fall,

  I noticed him walking, far away, from the back.

  He was wandering in the shadows, frightening the stars,

  carrying a ladder to cut some branches.

  His demeanor was humble—he was simply exhausted.

  That’s how Jesus carried his cross, I thought.

  I also thought—this is easy for him,

  knowing what to do, not noticing the emptiness,

  remembering everything that was, accepting everything

  that is,

  clearly imagining his future,

  believing that nothing will change,

  guessing that no one will escape,

  shifting the ladder from one shoulder to the other.

  I said as he passed,

  Do what you have to do,

  work is only part of our struggle,

  faith is the sand that forms the foundation of our years,

  and trees can’t really grow without gardeners.

  It’s good, he thought, it’s good that I’m dead to her,

  good that she’s forgotten my name,

  good that this all happened so quickly,

  good that I wasn’t there for all of it.

  Good that she decided all this for us,

  that I didn’t have to convince her to stop the nonsense,

  didn’t have to watch her hesitate,

  didn’t have to see her dark eyes.

  Now it’s important to disappear, to choose the right course,

  it’s important not to return to where I used to live,

  it’s important not to go to familiar places,

  not to frighten friends, or disappoint strangers,

  not to wander into their dreams, not to touch their things,

  not to look through their books, not to drink their wine,

  not to hear their breathing, not to see their eyes,

  not to feel what they themselves no longer feel.

  It’s good that I can fly out of the chimney now,

  walk through fire, fall on the grass,

  feel the flow of the stuff that fills her dreams,

  notice the cables that keep her afloat.

  It’s a good thing that death is neither an achievement nor a

  loss,

  good that our footsteps don’t give us away,

  that nothing can be turned back,

  that nothing can be lost forever.

  What was there?

  green warmth,

  against the orange background

  of the evening sky.

  Golden moons,

  blue fish in the river,

  dark shadows

  on her face.

  What to do with the priests?

  They graze their churches like cattle,

  leading them to emerald-­green pastures, watching

  how their churches plop down into the river silt

  to escape from the June sun.

  They follow their churches, chasing them out of the

  neighbor’s

  wheat fields, turning them toward home, where

  evening fires are lit in cottages.

  They sleep on bags and books, listening to the breath of

  sleeping animals,

  recalling in dreams the faces of women who came and

  told them their darkest sins,

  asking for advice, awaiting forgiveness.

  What kind of advice can he give you?

  His entire life is spent herding echoes,

  searching for pasturelands, and sleeping under a dark sky.

  You can sing with him, you can

  sleep next to him, covering yourself with an infantry jacket,

  you can dry your wet clothes at the fire,

  wash your shirts in the river.

  He is ready to hang them in the church like a holy shroud.

  What to do with the atheists?

  They say, “Truly I believe, I believe in everything said,

  but I will never admit it for any reason,

  under any circumstances, that’s my business,

  and only concerns me. Let him take offense

  a hundred times and threaten me, get angry, and turn away

  from me on his crucifix,

  anyway—What is he without me? What can he do alone?

  He must struggle for my attention.

  He is destined to fight for my redemption.

  He must take into consideration my doubts, my

  inconsistencies, my sincerity.”

  What to do with you? You can sing with us,

  stand in a circle with us, place your hands on our shoulders:

  we are united in our faith,

  united in our love,

  in our loneliness,

  in our disappointment.

  What to do with all of us?

  If he had just a little more time,

  if he did not have to watch his domesticated church,

  if he didn’t have to follow it, chase it out of yellow fields,

  he would have more time for our

  worrisome premonitions.

  Love destroys

  all our ideas of balance.

  We can forget and stand to the side,

  we can deny what we once said,

  we can kiss the black lips of night—

  we are the only ones touched by the flames of night,

  we are the only ones who believe,

  we are the only ones who will never

  admit it.

  You can talk about everything that you’ve dreamt.

  You can talk, you don’t have to fear the dark:

  someone will hear you anyway,

  but no one will ever believe you.

  The city where she hides,

  burning with flags, lies under a snow-­covered mountain pass.

  Hunters chase wild animals out of Protestant churches,

  blue stars fall into the lake,

  killing slow-­moving fish.

  Oh, tightrope walkers dangle above the streets.

  They balance in school

  windows, inspiring awe.

  They avoid the gulls on the lake

  that grab weightless golden potato chips

  out of her hands.

  Where we once lived,

  we didn’t have time for peace or reflection.

  We struggled against the sharp reeds of the night,

  threw off our clothes like counterweights down dark elevator

  shafts,

  so we could be suspended in the air for one more night,

  not loving and not forgiving

  not accepting and not believing,

  angrily experiencing the best days

  of our lives.

  The city where she finally hides

  touches her gently by the hand,

  and shows her all its warehouses and storage.

  Oh, ports where transported

  Senegalese prisoners gather,

  dark meat of hearts,

  ivory of eyes,

  oh, those cellars packed with cheese,

  welcoming Protestant towns,

  where you can sit out Judgment Day,

  where they have such learned lawyers,

  such impregnable walls.

  Where we once sat with her,

  warming ourselves in kitchens

  near the blue flames,

  not a trace of us remains. Time, that old tightrope walker,

  fell a hundred times, then got up a hundred times,

  despite broken collarbones and metal teeth,

  time doesn’t care which way he moves—

  he licks his wounds then once again dances with the gulls.
/>   In the city where she managed to hide

  there are such bright-­colored dresses and blouses.

  The Chinese students and pilots have such

  velvety skin.

  Oh, the fresh mountain air,

  the feeling of blood rushing

  after exhausting kisses.

  She didn’t leave anything behind where she came from,

  not a single voice or curse.

  Life is a joyful tug of rope.

  On one side are the angels.

  On the other—lawyers.

  There are more lawyers.

  But their services are more expensive.

  Saint Francis built this city for surfers and heroes.

  He brought ships from royal fleets

  to these quiet bays covered with fog.

  The Spanish jumped onto the shore,

  Russian sailors came by rowboats and Chinese prospectors for

  gold

  stitched the night with lanterns, surprised by the shadows in

  the hills.

  And each church they established was like a weary voice—

  there will be enough freedom for everyone, as long as you

  don’t keep it all for yourself,

  share the bread and coal during winter,

  and look at the sun through the glass bottle of the ocean.

  There is enough gold for everyone,

  but only the bravest will find love!

  It takes a thousand years

  to dig out the bounty of the earth.

  It takes a thousand nights to learn the ways of the local fish,

  a thousand words to commune with eternity.

  The plague descends on the holiday port,

  young girls and teenagers follow it out of churches,

  daring, golden skinned, full of their first secrets

  and Catholic hymns—

  share your books and bright-­colored clothes,

  share your coffee and fruit.

  This city is protected by moats and fortified walls,

  so much joy has been brought here from all over the world,

  what shall we do with it,

  what shall we do with it?

  I know Saint Francis protects her,

  when she appears at conferences and in libraries,

  protects her every time she walks through the shops,

  counting the pennies she has to live on,

  protects her from enemies, protects her from friends.

  He is annoyed when I advise him,

  share your patience with her,

  share your weariness, share your joy,

  who else can she rely on in this city, if not you,

  who else can we talk about in this life, if not her,

  who else are we to protect,

  who else can we envy,

  Francis?

  What are your sins, woman?

  Who will count the stitches on your opaque body

  where veins slowly flow into your palm?

  Who will think of asking directions from strangers

  whose voices possess you in your sleep?

  Who will be brave enough to stand at the head of your bed

  to watch you choking back the tears,

  like snakes coiling around your throat?

  What are your troubles and what are your secrets?

  Nothing can be hidden

  nothing lost will be returned.

  Why ask forgiveness from skeletons,

  that lie in the garden

  under rosebushes?

  She answers, “There’s always

  someone who will remind us about each of our losses.

  There’s always someone who will not let you be,

  who will pull fear out of your body like weeds.”

  Autumn approaches. Honeyed voices

  and songs fill the churches.

  All Christians are united by images of saints on icons,

  like pictures in a family album—

  beloved and familiar since childhood, a light that

  accompanies

  us through life; the closest are those saints who

  took the splinters from your hands when you were a child.

  What are your worries, woman? Where are your men?

  Betrayed and contrite, angry and hated,

  they pronounce your name like some concoction—

  which couldn’t alleviate their pain.

  Moons waxed and waned in your window—

  someone collected and assembled them

  like the thick layers of an autumn onion.

  She does not agree: “Moons that have waned

  cannot teach you anything

  and extinguished stars, like the eyes of linguists,

  fail to pierce through

  the darkness of the world.

  “There’s no light, no wasteland, no fires on the river,

  no name to remember tonight.

  Love is the ability to arrange stones in the waters of the

  night.

  Love is the ability to see how everything is born,

  how everything dies,

  how everything is born again.”

  Women who live beyond the river,

  where the ground is full of silt

  and the streets are paved with red brick,

  wake up and go to the river’s edge

  and wait for what the water will bring them that morning—

  laundry that escaped someone’s hands,

  baskets set adrift with vegetables

  or infants.

  Water is made up of secrets; you must

  be careful or you’ll be pulled into deep wells,

  where creatures with fish heads

  and delicate tails wait—loved and betrayed.

  If bridges existed,

  if I could cross over to the other side,

  I would have done so long ago.

  How can I forget about you,

  I see the marks your nails made on my arm,

  but how can I remember your face,

  if you always ask me to turn off the light.

  On this shore, past the factories and boilers, the skies burn

  and dead girls in bright gypsy skirts

  hover in the air above the rooftops, peering into chimneys,

  singing into them, like into old vacuum-­tube microphones.

  No one tells the women, who live on the other shore,

  about the young strays,

  who hide every night in the spilt

  gold of the apples, watching them on the sly,

  as they take off their light dresses and take

  the pins and poisoned combs out of their hair.

  Whoever finds themselves here will fish

  every day, throwing their nets into the mist,

  and place red hearts at their feet,

  plucking them out of the fish

  like tulips.

  If only I could get to the other shore,

  walk past the cold shadow of the power plant,

  see the birds that steal earrings

  and little gold crucifixes set out on windowsills.

  Feel the dark rise out of the river at night.

  And know it will be gone by morning.

  Winters are not like winters,

  winters live under assumed names,

  and unpleasant events are associated with them,

  such strange things have been happening to us,

  such sorrowful partings, such losses,

  such expectations, such returns,

  such insults, you want to sort it all out,

  but you don’t know which came first, or last,

  such confidence that everything you are doing is right,

  such unwillingness to accept the obvious,

  such snow, as cold as the war,

  such sieges are planned, such escapes occur,

  such blue trees, such green planets,

  such bright hills and tw
ilight valleys,

  even when you are not with me, I know where you are

  and what you are doing right now,

  I know what you are afraid of on winter nights,

  what you recall with joy, what you recall with sadness,

  what you see walking through the yards at night,

  what you hear in each voice, each splash and sound,

  what you feel approaching this home,

  what you find in the dark corridors,

  what concerns you, so later, at the front door,

  you nervously react to the smallest movement,

  you regret that he still waits for you,

  you are happy you don’t have to say anything to him.

  The birds in the sky look like the combs in your hair.

  The snow under our feet resembles an engraving.

  The snows pass, and in the green mist

  of every Maytime

  women stop time in the kitchen,

  cooking moons as if they were cheese.

  At night warm smoke rises from the pots

  and the yellow moons

  endure, and even the heaviest

  only leaves ripples in the river.

  Every moon has its own space in the kitchen

  among the knives, drawers, and scales,

  and each name is as long and full as a drink,

  drenched with the voices of women.

  Their uncertain weights

  are lightened with cries and songs,

  the women carry them out to the shore

  for refugees, runaways, and killers.

  The suns of fishermen and the stars of shepherds,

  pour light, like song,

  on the dark bronze shore birds

  and carp heavy with silver.

  Because all the women stick to the mist,

  forgetting during the day but remembering at night

  secrets engravers, weavers, and antiquarians

  shared with them,

  they stand for a long time by the fire,

  taking on thousands of poisons,

  as long as the mud lies on the bottom,

  and the silence grows cold on the rooftops.

  As long as their moons last,

  and there is enough light,

  grass grows to penetrate the dead,

  grass grows to hold on to the living.

  I say, “So what if nothing is understood?

  So what if we have to start everything all over again?

  Every soul inhabits a body,

  and every door leads to a room.

  “Every space is full of its own radio shows.

  Every heart grows flowers and algae.

  So what if all this could have been predicted?

  So what if you have no idea how to talk about this?

  “I passed through these twenty-­four-­hour twilights,