BACKLIT Poem by Elke Erb

A dance like that of those Serbian peasants
A line in a poem by . . . I don't read on,
turn my back on

these dancing, grimacing, wizened
peasants à la Dürer & Dutch psychogenic
mockery . . . in vinegar and oil

Peasants! They mock themselves, as I've seen,
stomping in a circle. In the center

their musician, happy-go-lucky, mockingbird-mocking-
pipe for all and against the devils.

A Ländler? - barn floor stomped flat
smell of smoked meat from the chimney
and all the all these all these

clodsodbreakerssowersseedersmowersweedershoers
incessantly hourlong daylong lifelong

and ochrebrown, oxen, creaking
carts. Till finally November
logs from the woods

knitted quilted prayer-
mumble, and

murmurs to the beasts.