A Christmas poem

Notes Toward a Christmas, 2006

There are lights. Hair.
On the street corners, fish
move in heavy, slow

possession of their vats. Hands take them and they go,
unresisting,
to be weighed. There is cold.

There are countable strands
of breath. Everything
has substance.

In the smokestacks of the world, a switch
is off,
attentive,

ready
for the paperwork, the painted surname
on a suitcase, unused,

the country of origin,
age.
Shoe size.

The tour guide at Auschwitz is a pretty blonde.
A tour of the world,
she says, would be similar,

but shorter.
This is still happening.
People ask me, and I tell them,

this is happening right now.
On the train,
in the train’s forgetfulness

between two countries, you flash
your passport.
You are light as air in this new world

but the border
is earth,
is long,

and has substance. Everything that has substance
can be burned. A cloth star,
a new year.

On the corner, one loose strand of your hair
falls into the water,
and you don't notice. There are lights. The dark fish, somewhere

between the vat
and your hands,
has been switched for a brighter one.


25 December
Brno, Czech Republic