Wednesday, May 11, 2011

ivan walks away

My confession, dear Alyosha, is this:
I broke into quiet tears after
reading the Inquisitor's poem come to an end:
Ivan turning on his low-slung
right shoulder, pivoting

on a fractured limb,
a dove falling from the air
twirling on the severed
bloody stub of its wing,
blasted by a wounded little boy.

(My poor father, my poor father,
there's your money, THERE'S YOUR MONEY
and there, there alone, there's your freedom:
200 red rubles
balled up in the mud)

Where Ivan walks, no hand
to hold him; no extended arm.
No counterbalance for the weight
of the ears carelessly nailed to fence-posts
or girl left alone in the outhouse

all night to freeze.
His look is too familiar, Alyosha,
too familiar to me, like driving away from home
the last time it's still home.
I wish I could dissolve with you.

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