Sunday, April 12, 2009

Blood on those grapes

I had a sign. He had a cleaver,

and it comes to me now, so large –
as big as a head, a big, sweating,

sculpted head screaming some
distorted sentence --

This immigrant butcher
could handle it like a scalpel.

He spoke
in Russian. I did not speak

in Russian.
My sign said “There’s blood

on those grapes,” His knife said
“I did not come here for this, for

the likes of you.” He was
only trying to live. We

were only trying to protect
the living.

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