which the body answers for them
was, is, and will be a cry of innocence
in keeping with the age-old scale and pitch.
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Nothing has changed.
Except perhaps the manners, ceremonies, dances.
The gesture of the hands shielding the head
has nonetheless remained the same.
The body writhes, jerks, and tugs,
falls to the ground when shoved, pulls up its knees,
bruises, swells, drools, and bleeds.
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Nothing has changed.
Except the run of rivers,
the shapes of forests, shores, deserts, and glaciers.
The little soul roams among those landscapes,
disappears, returns, draws near, moves away,
evasive and a stranger to itself,
now sure, now uncertain of its own existence,
whereas the body is and is and is
and has nowhere to go.
Plotting with the Dead
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Under what conditions do you dream of the dead?
Do you often think of them before you fall asleep?
Who appears first?
Is it always the same one?
First name? Surname? Cemetery? Date deceased?
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To what do they refer?
Old friendship? Kinship? Fatherland?
Do they say where they come from?
And whoâs behind them?
And who besides you sees them in his dreams?
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Their faces, are they like their photographs?
Have they aged at all with time?
Are they robust? Are they wan?
The murdered ones, have their wounds healed yet?
Do they still remember who killed them?
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What do they hold in their hands? Describe these objects.
Are they charred? Moldy? Rusty? Decomposed?
And in their eyes, what? Entreaty? A threat? Be specific.
Do you only chat about the weather?
Or about flowers? Birds? Butterflies?
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No awkward questions on their part?
If so, what do you reply?
Instead of safely keeping quiet?
Or evasively changing the dreamâs subject?
Or waking up just in time?
Writing a Résumé
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What needs to be done?
Fill out the application
and enclose the résumé.
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Regardless of the length of life,
a résumé is best kept short.
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Concise, well-chosen facts are de rigueur.
Landscapes are replaced by addresses,
shaky memories give way to unshakable dates.
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Of all your loves, mention only the marriage;
of all your children, only those who were born.
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Who knows you matters more than whom you know.
Trips only if taken abroad.
Memberships in what but without why.
Honors, but not how they were earned.
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Write as if youâd never talked to yourself
and always kept yourself at armâs length.
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Pass over in silence your dogs, cats, birds,
dusty keepsakes, friends, and dreams.
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Price, not worth,
and title, not whatâs inside.
His shoe size, not where heâs off to,
that one you pass off as yourself.
In addition, a photograph with one ear showing.
What matters is its shape, not what it hears.
What is there to hear, anyway?
The clatter of paper shredders.
Funeral (II)
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âso suddenly, who could have seen it comingâ
âstress and smoking, I kept telling himâ
ânot bad, thanks, and youâ
âthese flowers need to be unwrappedâ
âhis brotherâs heart gave out, too, it runs in the familyâ
âIâd never know you in that beardâ
âhe was asking for it, always mixed up in somethingâ
âthat new guy was going to make a speech, I donât see himâ
âKazekâs in Warsaw, Tadek has gone abroadâ
âyou were smart, you brought the only umbrellaâ
âso what if he was more talented than they wereâ
âno, itâs a walk-through room, Barbara wonât take itâ
âof course, he was right, but thatâs no excuseâ
âwith body work and paint, just guess how muchâ
âtwo egg yolks and a tablespoon of sugarâ
ânone of his business, what was in it for himâ
âonly in blue and just small sizesâ
âfive times and never any answerâ
âall right, so I could have, but you could have, tooâ
âgood thing that at least she still had a jobâ
âdonât