We are a sad people, without hats.
The history of our nation is tragically benign.
We like to watch the rabbits screwing in the graveyard.
We are fond of the little bunny with the bent ear
who stands alone in the moonlight
reading what little text there is on the graves.
He looks quite desirable like that.
He looks like the center of the universe.
Look how his mouth moves mouthing the words
while the others are busy making more of him.
Soon the more will ask of him to write their love
letters and he will oblige, using the language
of our ancestors, those poor clouds in the ground,
beloved by us who have been standing here for hours,
a proud people after all.
© Mary Ruefle
Ett varmt tack till Mary Ruefle för att vi fick publicera den här dikten ur hennes samling Trances of the Blast (Wave Books). Ruefle har en rik produktion bakom sig, inte bara poesi – missa inte ett besök på hennes hemsida.