Wednesday, March 27, 2019

Before the War, We Made a Child by Ilya Kaminsky

Before the War, We Made a Child
I kissed a woman
whose freckles 
arouse our neighbors.
She had a mole on her shoulder
which she displayed
like a medal for bravery
Her trembling lips
meant come to bed.
Her hair falling down in the middle
of the conversation meant
come to bed.
I walked in my barbershop of thoughts.
Yes, I thieved her off to bed on the chair
of my hairy arms—
but parted lips
meant bite my parted lips,
Lying under the cool
sheets. Sonya!
The things we did.

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