Af­ter To­maž Šala­mun

New England Review - - Table of Contents - Steven Cramer

Be­fore I died, I could hear singing from un­der ash heaps. Mo­tor oil dripped a rosary on the black­tops. I rose with va­por from Au­gust dew. I du­eled with oak branches.

I walked through my smol­der­ing city, whistling. Not one cloud, but you couldn't see the sun. Keep go­ing, I thought, you can sleep un­der tres­tles and loot as you wish. Heat ex­haled through cracks in the side­walks.

Red ants stormed an apri­cot pit. I stole an ex­tra pair of socks off a dead man. Birds be­haved like birds—that is, like the rep­tiles from which they're de­scended.

Flash­lights burned white, then am­ber, then not at all. I car­ried some­body's mother on my back. We sank into mud up to my knees, my thighs, my waist, while God called out, Get over here, and right this minute.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.