The shelling has just stopped.
The house has just lifted off skyward,
Soared away.
And debris rained down.
I have just passed away.
Still warm and with no one yelling, “hey, you, bloodless people,
Don’t touch the fence, the fence is mine.”
Just a minute ago my yard was leveled,
Blood is creeping from torn apart trees.
How we were blooming
When the sand came suddenly.
And when the smoke cleared, I was deaf
And when the smoke cleared
My nose was soot covered and I was standing and fixing the gate.
I was grabbing the loose handle.
I was looking for you between the fallen shelves.
I was putting out the flaming curtains.
And locust swarms were covering the crops.
The steadfast guard—all of my scarecrows
With their noses buried in the dirt
Were mourning the perished harvest they could not save.
From this moment on
I am the dead, restless—
Don’t dare touch me.
From this day on, our ghosts will be able to fit into any
Cracks in any house.
Because our ghosts
Because our ghosts
Especially on the coldest
Evenings in winter,
Will start going up and down the stairs,
Seeking their own rooms,
Opening up the doors of others.
Don’t be scared, we’re just looking for our stuff,
We have nothing to do with your peace.
We shall not be wearing white, loose-fitting gowns
or anything alike,
Just ordinary, smiling
Boys and girls,
Inseparable from our blue jeans, quietly
Walking from one happiness to another
Like the penniless walk around in stores.
The gray sky has just slipped out the odd hail ball,
The hot hail.
This burned forest,
This stolen village
A retreating sea we are guarding with a fishing rod,
To reel it in.
Guarding with a net and wearing rubber, knee-high boots—
Maybe the fish will remember and swim our way.
Seventeen years have passed where you are.
Here, the bombardment has just finished.
Only this inscription on the gate heals against distance—
Again:
33 Eshba Street.
“Katherine
I love you.
That’s all”
The last letter of the last phrase, shot through.