Elizabeth Winslow

Please don’t ask me, America.

I don’t remember

on which street,

with whom,

or under which star.

Don’t ask me …

I don’t remember

the colors of the people

or their signatures.

I don’t remember if they had

our faces

and our dreams,

if they were singing

or not,

writing from the left

or the right

or not writing at all,

sleeping in houses

on sidewalks

or in airports,

making love or not making love.

Please don’t ask me, America.

I don’t remember their names

or their birthplaces.

People are grass –

they grow everywhere, America.

Don’t ask me …

I don’t remember

what time it was,

what the weather was like,

which language,

or which flag.

Don’t ask me …

I don’t remember

how long they walked under the sun

or how many died.

I don’t remember

the shapes of the boats

or the number of stops …

How many suitcases they carried

or left behind,

if they came complaining

or without complaint.

Stop your questioning, America,

and offer your hand

to the tired

on the other shore.

The hypothesis: I am tense and so are you.

We neither meet nor separate.

The desired result: We meet in the absence.

The proof: As tension turns people into arcs, we are two arcs.

We neither meet nor separate (the hypothesis)

so we must be parallel.

If two parallel lines are bisected by a third line

(in this case, the line of tension)

their corresponding angles must be equal (a geometrical theorem).

So we are congruent (because shapes are congruent

when their angles are equal)

and we form a circle (since the sum

of two congruent arcs

is a circle).

Therefore, we meet in the absence

(since the circumference of a circle

is the sum of contiguous points

which can each be considered

a point of contact).

How magnificent the war is!
How eager
and efficient!
Early in the morning,
it wakes up the sirens
and dispatches ambulances
to various places,
swings corpses through the air,
rolls stretchers to the wounded,
summons rain
from the eyes of mothers,
digs into the earth
dislodging many things
from under the ruins …
Some are lifeless and glistening,
others are pale and still throbbing …
It produces the most questions
in the minds of children,
entertains the gods
by shooting fireworks and missiles
into the sky,
sows mines in the fields
and reaps punctures and blisters,
urges families to emigrate,
stands beside the clergymen
as they curse the devil
(poor devil, he remains
with one hand in the searing fire) …
The war continues working, day and night.
It inspires tyrants
to deliver long speeches,
awards medals to generals
and themes to poets.
It contributes to the industry
of artificial limbs,
provides foods for flies,
adds pages to the history books,
achieves equality
between killer and killed,
teaches lovers to write letters,
accustoms young women to waiting,
fills the newspapers
with articles and pictures,
builds new houses
for the orphans,
invigorates the coffin makers,
gives grave diggers
a pat on the back
and paints a smile on the leader’s face.
The war works with unparalleled diligence!
Yet no one gives it
a word of praise.

I saw a Ghost pass in the mirror.

Someone whispered something in my ear.

I said a word, and left.

Graves were scattered with mandrake seeds.

A bleating sound entered the assembly.

Gardens remained hanging.

Straw was scattered with the words.

No fruit is left.

Someone climbed on the shoulders of another.

Someone descended into the netherworld.

Other things are happening

in secret.

I don’t know what they are—

This is everything.