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Galicia In Galicia an elephant scratches the ear of a flea, and pigs wallow in broken clouds. In Galicia I smear my face with the juice of celandine stalks and climb a tree, surveying the rubble. In Galicia water swirls and swirls. Horsemen swing their angry torches. Couches are filled with dung. The forest of diamonds flickers. In Galicia I wrestle a rooster for the right to the bones. In Galicia, three heavy white horses drink tea without me. Rain flies sideways, feathers drifting over an empty bed. In Galicia a crow caws over the rooftops. In Galicia, my grandmother kisses me on the forehead, twisting the dough for her famous knishes. My grandfather leans closer to the Talmud, squinting his eyes. In Galicia the piano benches are hopping while the count prays for rain. and saints bath their decapitated heads, before robbing the tombs buried in the walls. In Galicia I bake bread for the empress, who honors me with a ruby. I hum to the earth where my ancestors lie. Hair grows on the graves. Flies swarm my head. In Galicia I ride against the Cossacks, waving my saber. In Galicia I strike a match and fire rises to the sky. In Galicia the pogrom starts at midnight. Roses bloom under the moon. The muddy river blasts white rock. In Galicia I sleep in a coffin, and the crow smells the flames long before they are burning. Lineage My mother's people came from St. Louis and before that, from Galicia, but my father had no people. He came from a silent village drifting in ash. He came from an empty barn. He came from a nest of blue eggs, from a hillside of tired cows, from a yard where chickens scratched out a living. He dreamed a family of crows. He dreamed a sky full of roads. He dreamed a wedding in the pines. He dreamed his pockets stuffed with twenties. He dreamed a gray silk suit and black wingtips whose polish wouldn't scuff. He dreamed a brown fedora bobbing in the blue light. He dreamed a new set of hard luggage. He dreamed a Cadillac with bright wings and the bugles that would announce his arrival. He dreamed a red highway. He dreamed his last breath. He called himself a bad penny, the smoke in a blind eye. He dreamed a sales pitch that would never fail. Memorial It’s nice to remember the houses floating on water. It’s nice to stand on shore and sing a hymn of praise while candles burn in the windows. It’s nice to dream the loaves rising in ovens and the floors dusted with flour, the women with beautiful hair falling like cities into darkness, the long nights of love. It’s nice to pretend we could have saved them. It’s nice to say a few words as spring turns to fall, as fall turns to winter, and winter to spring. It’s nice to return again and stare at the stars so bright and forgettable. It’s nice to remember laughter spilling into the wind, roses sprouting from their fleshy mouths as children fall down and down into the dirt. It’s nice to remember the voices calling for you, calling back the curtains, calling through the long sleeves, the hollow places. It’s nice to remember the feast of speckled blackbirds huddled on the rims of roofs, the stars drawn in ash on the doorways, the lament of uncles — the long dance that kicked up the dust and crinkled leaves, the bodies waiting to burn, the ash drifting on water. |
| © Copyright Jeff Friedman |
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