not one young wife with two children
dragged from her side. And
African masks, the death mask, the
life mask, the mask
oflove chiseled in a jade-like stone,
so heavy I could hardly pick it up
to see the naked bodies, the veils
covering and uncovering
them. I almost bought the many-armed
Lady from India, the Wise Fool
from Vietnam, I almost paid the full
thousand forints
for the hand-made Polish moccasins
with the pointed toes
and small beaded white horses, smaller
men with sabers drawn
as they ride off the stitched edge.
I had to lift them all to feel their weight,
I had to bring them close so I could see
the tiny hands and feet, the
curve of an arm, the straight nose, the
buckle on his shoe, the gilIy–
flower on hers, I had to feel the heaviness
of their dreams, the foolishness
of their hopes as they dipped thick bread
into the bowls, as they
snuffed out the candles name by name
by the tiny carved altar, I had to bend
to hear their silence
as they bowed from the waist and curtsied,
stiff-legged, without
a single moan, not oile face turned
away, not one hand raised
as they began their strange dance
on the dustless shelves.
