after they hit the city
(Grozny, winter 1995)
I keep thinking of Isa the driver
sidling into the picture so he could
slip his arm around me his face soft
like a 1970s photograph
when we had a flat tire he rubbed
it with his thumb so slippery he said
even a fly can’t keep its footing
shy like he was always
almost dreaming
and there was a barbecue in the
crumbling castle of a courtyard
and a bald man in a long coat
whose source of money wasn’t clear
and the smell of charred and dripping meat
and the heart of the city had been ripped out
and was inhabited by dogs who didn’t look
like they would kill
stray pipes sprayed gas and breathed fire
while old ladies lived under sagging roofs
plastic sheeting spread across their beds
to keep the rain out
who brought them food?
who tucked them in?
and now you’re asked and then you’re told
what if twenty years from now
after last week in the cave of your room
with your curtains drawn
what of the welts on your back
the scarlet landscape where a stick
went looking for unbroken skin
what if you spoke up shaved your face
and the breeze kept tugging at the sky
what if the city, the school
the seat the minister
used to sit on
your house empty of people and full of
things that can be carried away
and now you’re asked to come to work
and then you’re told to go home
as if you’re the one who doesn’t belong
some people have time to play games
some people have somewhere to go
Martine van Bijlert is a poet, novelist and non-fiction writer, who grew up in Iran and now lives in the Netherlands. In between, she worked as an aid worker, researcher and diplomat, mostly in Afghanistan—a country she still closely follows from afar. Her poetry has just started appearing in places, among others in Kerning, The Dewdrop and Otis Nebula.