Finally, we are free
walking under the sun
the ordinary has become
luminous on a country road
lined with trenches—
where are we?
France, Vietnam, Cambodia?—
pairs of rubber gloves
are lined up on their lips
turquoise blue, fuschia pink
yellow dots on black, water green
neatly laid one on top of the other
like hands quietly resting on knees
during a bus trip to the Galilee
Now we see trenches wide
and layered like rice fields
gloved people bent over the earth
bringing the hidden to light—
long white bones. The rest
cannot be told. The dream—
what echoes on the page
like nobody is
listening, like swimming
in the erractic sounds
of a piano
killed by the monsoons.
(This poem was first published in Self-Quarantine Lines, Jennifer K. Dick’s friendly blog.)