Joseph Duemer

The Room

There are stains

some subtle

some grotesque

on the floor

& on the bench.

This is the room

where persons

turn into stains.

*

An Event in the Capital

Imagine an ordinary person—

middle-aged, male, nondescript—

walking along a street in the capital.

Imagine an explosion

behind him, just far enough

that he is only knocked down

by the expanding sphere of air,

falling forward onto his hands & knees,

hardly breaking the skin.

In your imagination, enter the city.

(Not much is required.)

He hears the splatter of gunfire

& sirens converging on the splintered

wreckage, but he gets up

& continues to the market,

dusting himself off as he walks.

Flakes of paper & ancient plaster

filter down around him.

He buys a few things for his dinner

& is not surprised, returning home,

to feel his neck stiffening,

a headache forming behind his eyes

so that despite the heat

he lies down to rest.

Early evening, the day cooling,

he is awakened by voices

at the door. His daughter-in-law’s

low but insistent murmur.

Her friend who has walked with her

from her home near the river

retreats, unwilling to be marked

with the news of the man’s son

killed that morning in the explosion

in the Street of Fountains.

It is only then that the man—

ordinary, middle-aged, nondescript,

sweaty from sleeping in the heat—

notices that his ears are still ringing

from the blast that drove him

to his knees that morning

in the Street of Fountains.

With his arm now placed carefully

around her shoulders, he leads

his daughter into the kitchen, then

goes to draw a basin of water

so they can wash their faces,

each, now, beyond

government.

© Joseph Duemer




///