Moscow

© 2004 Sean Kilpatrick
All rights reserved.

we are putkin's dead babies;
grey cascades, theater walls.
encircled slow dim lights
sprinkle 40 widows.

tombs of living bombs, pregnant small hiroshimas.
they are slits of eyes, sore and famished
in the cramp of 800 chairs crawling into the orchestra pit;
thin shoes to exudate, stench climbs, heels lining skirts.

the soldiers murdered a drunk man onstage.
he wandered in, they carried him out;
stray bullets made a woman's chest
jump two rows down, her child sprayed.

finally, booming echo of bodies snoring through the cloud,
louder than bombs,
our heads sent fading, soldiers shooting the drowsy widows,
their un-detonated shawls curtsying up.
yelps of pride drown their fear,
and we are carried outside
to choke on our tongues
facing the rain.

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