EXILE

by David Kushner

When a man leaves home he remembers

the lullabies.

He remembers the forest was one place,

the city another

where he slept and rose fitfully.

So many black wings.

What does this have to do with you?

Are you in this picture?

Three children dance in a ring.

One trips and the others run away.

Sometimes there are monsters.

Do you remember?

Let me begin again. A man leaves the beleaguered country of X.

They aim at his two good legs.

They want his perfect eye,

the one that looks straight ahead.

This is war, they say, and poison the wells.

Birds sing delirious.

Later, the torment of those who do not stay.

If only to wipe blood from the lips of the baker’s daughter—

those ice-blue lips—

and the dead children,

scattered in the streets like piles of dirty snow.

Originally published in The Seattle Review,Vol. XXII, No. 1