Issue 185, Summer 2008
Hello everyone, hello you. Here we are under
this sky. Where were you Tuesday? I was at the El Rancho
Motel in Gallup. Someone in one of the nameless rooms
was dying, slowly the ambulance came, just another
step towards the end. An older couple asked me
to capture them with a camera, gladly I rose
about three inches and did and then back to my chair.
I thought of Paul Celan, one of those poets
everything happened to strangely as it happens
to everyone. In German he wrote he rose one pain inch
above the floor, I don’t understand but I understand.
Did writing in German make him a little part
of whoever set in motion the chain of people
talking who pushed his parents under the blue grasses
of the Ukraine? No. My name is Ukrainian
and Ukranians killed everyone but six people with my name.
Do you understand me now? It hurts to be part
of the chain and feel rusty and also a tiny squeak now