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A picture from the
50s-maybe
But what is any different now
Just the constant turning inside out
Of a shirt soaked with sweat strain and blood
VISITATION
Four of them
In the middle of the night
One in uniform
One with crowbar
Two with smiles
Where's your husband
They raced off to check each room
Swished the drapes back and forth
Their breath frosted that of our sleeping child
Then they each found a chair
To wait me out
Four angels of communion
In their mouths black tidings from on high
Translated from the Polish
by
Daniel Bourne
Marguerite Bouvard
BALLAD OF THE BACK
We who have become inured
by scale, watching South Africa
burn, Ethiopia dwindle, who flee into ciphers
