Under the blossoming peach
trees, hogs fell on the dead in Shiloh. I am breaking up with you and
there is a yellow-hatted man throwing apples. Union
soldier? Rebel? I can't be held responsible for my
actions. I use my fists when I should cry like a woman in
love. Already the peach trees are shaken by a
breeze. Already the hogs roll over to sleep like large, uncorseted
women in a brothel. We were going to sip old-fashioneds and face the
ocean. We were going to slip into the water with all our
gold. This war was never meant to be ours.
can't cry the tears the ghosts cry all over themselves. You don't
write me. In Philadelphia, you remember me in spite of
yourself. At the heart of every translation is: How could you go ahead of me when I loved you so?
No reconnaissance to return your words to your mouth. Whales, adrift with harpoons of another era.