A Sunny Morning in the Square
Polina Barskova
to T.P.
My half-baked flesh stuffed with its own tricks finds itself as a leaf or a leaflet caught in the rush of a train to Bialystok.
Bialystok stuck in 1941 (1939?). Bialystok padded in fright like a Christmas star stored away in its box. People still wake there alive living ablaze.
They discuss an earlier event and read an announcement:
“You are to appear in person on the square at six, bring only your wrist watches, in the amount of twelve, bring only your greyhounds, in the amount of twelve, bring only one bolt and one hatch.”
Bialystok grows silent and speaks stocked with soldiers in the amount of one, between his brows a swastika shines, in his mouth a star shuns speech.
“Where should we shovel our hounds, our watches, our hatch? Our knees bleed dew, our teeth rake burning leaves, why, shiny soldier, are we so sweet with you? The soldier curses at them: we’ll build a circus! Our circus king will show you his tricks. A star built of smoke and scream! History crams a lesson down your throat.
Mercy me/Master me on the square at seven, greyhounds bark, hatches shine, wristwatches bang, by eight the square is ready for bedtime and you crack like a glass Christmas star. Arrr arrr