nachkriegszeit

the lean and tall grasses
shifted in the late october wind.
it whistled past the curling vines
and the wheat stalks
that had sprung
over the bones of serfs,
long tempered on
carcassone soil.
roger emerged from dull light of the kitchen
into the brisk white noon.
assam tea, here.
it was black as night.
I should believe your arrival
especially serendipitous
in light of the circumstances.
the circumstances being,
in roger's case
the communicae from berlin
and his recent discharge.
serendipitous, or lucky.
they call it heureux hasard here.
we seated ourselves in no.14 chairs on the veranda.
the gramophone on the table sat idly
with roger's service cap mounted upon it.
how was paris?
it was. didn't you see it
in the war?
not the way it is now.
no,
no I suppose not.
if there was anything to see
then the germans took it when they left.
there wasn't much in berlin,
roger said. only skeletons.
the same in paris.
all the partisans had suicided
the only ones left
were the ones fat enough not to starve.
tell me roger
if all our brightest died fighting
then who will be left
to carry the fire?
the lights are dim over europe,
some, in remembrance
others still in fear.
is that why you left paris?
because its lights were too dim?
because you were not bright enough
to see in the dark?
I left
because I saw nothing had changed.
six months passed,
like so many storms
the trains of france
ran on time.
the evenings consumed
with the bitter anomie
that autumn brought:
solace in cards
the dark and smoky nightclubs of pigalle place,
the stoicism so eagerly embraced
became a badge
to dejected friends
who saw the descent
and pondered the violence.
the letters and stipends that no longer arrived,
the montmartre apartment
piled high with old newspapers
bach records, cigarette stubs
savile row suits stained and frayed
a typewriter pawned for a train ticket
where sunshine would cure me of my needs.
the sun hangs over the pyrenees.
in spain, lorca lies in a shallow grave
a decade too early
for heroism.
in poland
the war goes on unheard.
the war.
she went back to the war.
standing over the Seine in the rain
the wind catches the tails of the gray coat like a whip.
the train returns to the mother
who wears an iron veil,
go back to the war,
and I won't follow.