Ilya Kaminsky Poems

Little daughter
rainwater-

snow and branches protect you
white-washed walls-
...

At the funeral I, embarrassed by resistance fighters
shuffling up to shake my hand

said:
I fold your daughter in a white napkin—
...

They say so much sky in his chest addicted him
Alfonso Barabinski goes to the Opera with chickens in his pockets.

He bites a hole in an apple and in that hole
He pours a shot of vodka.
...

If I speak for the dead, I must leave
this animal of my body,
...

I kissed a woman
whose freckles
aroused our neighbors.
...

It is December 8 and my brother Tony was killed by the soldiers. December 8 and the police are reopening the Southern Trolleyways. December 8 when my wife lifts Tony's body from the ground,
...

Each man has a quiet that revolves
around him as he beats his head against the earth. But I am laughing

hard and furious. I pour a glass of pepper vodka
...

Motionless forgetful music of women and men
touching each forehead, breathing a soul into each immeasurable other,
on earth where we are, stranger, through madness unattainable
or grace, in difficult traffic reaching for each immeasurable other:
...

Yet I am. I exists. I has
a body,
When I see
...

Such is the story made of stubbornness and a little air,
a story sung by those who danced before the Lord in quiet.
Who whirled and leapt. Giving voice to consonants that rise
...