We shout like Russians. Ever-so-tragic.
My father, the poor devil, feeling sick.
We've planted our tree on a landscape of vast sadness.
Our tears water weeds that kill us.
An immense saga all night long.
The police with their slugging faces arrive,
baseball bats ready for a homerun. Sideshows
of fellaheen gypsies on the main driveway
of our house of noble where horrified women
cast spells for money. It's like an incantation,
a cameo hotel, a flophouse of Chicago, full of
strange commuting children with milky white thighs.
We talk excitedly below a huge portrait of
the cancer stricken patriarch. We burn our diplomas
and the police applaud us. They beat my father
into bloody anonymity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well written Marina