D I R G E [: a ballet for 13 dancers], II

II [13 dancers]

It was odd—the leave-taking / micro-swimming August rain, shaking fallen coats, making room for room.

The smallest deaths—objects touched by ghosts, moved, hidden under the floor—the widower’s wedding ring, lucky golden ducks, frozen yet mesmerized.

The finest choreographers exposed ugly turmoil beneath the status quo, underneath the rubble in the poorest country.

Shhh—don’t say anything.

Grow nightfall—tumbling fractals can subtract anxiety, the hurry behind the shed, coaxing fallen cucumbers.

The catbirds know our every move.

Canto, Moonbeam, Stearns, Aphrodite, Bunny, Emily, Fresno, Catullus, Hazel, Hayden, Haiti, Zygote, Seth.

Please don’t talk about such-and-such now.

It’s getting too late for matter, its fraying narrative.

An event, preferable.

The dancers should get ready in the green room for this dirge.

The audience, first restless—now riveted.

The dog’s amber, marble eyes, those of a goat or wolf—have locked the stranger’s, gray, by default.

Ensconced, the ambulances tread for 911.

Call a priest. Awake the sleep-laden soothsayer.

Throw rice at the submerged iPhone at the bottom of the stolen car ditched in the dirty river.

Roll down the windows for shallow air.


We’re one absurd equation away, strings in cold soup, a possible vacation.

Disease, you know, can gnaw at layers of lungs, a final cymbal crash.

Tired fisherwomen count days of impossible catch, wipe salt from their rusted lips.

It’s imperative to jettison this Book based on good behavior.

You’ve been very patient—you with your pockets inside out.

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2 Responses to D I R G E [: a ballet for 13 dancers], II

  1. Kat says:

    Awesome writing, Krysia!

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