Whiting Award Winners

Some of the prisoners were strung like beef

From the ceilings of their cells. “Gus”

Was led around on a leash. I mean dragged.

Others were ridden like mules. The guards

Were under a tremendous amount of pleasure.

I mean pressure. Pretty disgusting. Not

What you’d expect from Americans.

Just kidding. I’m only talking about people

Having a good time, blowing off steam.

She walks all the time in the Heart Ward.

She makes no sound. She is always alone.

If she is looking in the toilet stall and you come in

she leaves. She calls you Dear.

I was thinking of giving her my flowers.

Just now she came over and said,

‘You don’t have to be writing all the time Dear.’

I said, ‘Do you have any flowers?’

She said, ‘No Dear.’

I said, ‘Do you want any flowers?’

She said, ‘No, no flowers, Dear.’

I said, ‘Don’t you want any flowers at all?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s too late for flowers Dear.’

She went to school with other Russian-speaking children, some of whom were Latvian Jews, sons and daughters of the lucky few who had been hidden away by righteous gentiles, or who had fought with the famous 43rd Latvian Rifle Guards Battalion of the Soviet army. The others, like her own family, had moved to Riga after the war, their families mostly intact, having spent the war in the eastern evacuation zones.

Some of her schoolteachers were survivors themselves, but no one knew for sure. The survivors, they were silent. They had not yet been glorified, honoured, beatified. They simply went about their lives as best they could. Only decades later did my mother find out that the school principal, Nina Dmitrievna Alieva, was an inmate in Salaspils concentration camp. Only later did she learn of rumours that their strict chorus teacher had climbed out of a ditch in Rumbula.

I saw inside the body of a man. The intern drew me

through the otherwise locked door; still in my hands

were eight glass vials the pharmacist had sent for,

to keep the glittering permanganate. That was my favorite task,

the weighing and dilution of the violet douche,

administered before the hysterectomies. In autopsy, he’d opened

like a box his arms had fallen from, neither looking at me

or away. As if he’d come through wind,

his hair was mussed. There was a funnel and a drain

inside the floor. And today I saw a sidewalk in the woods,

the handsome wooden cages and the smallest gravel pearls

smoothed around the bottoms of the trees, and then

a shock of feathers lifted on the damaged eagle’s head.

And the kestrel was afraid. Its open wing, so rarely looked down on

is gray, rust, black, and gray again, and black, and I have,

once today, felt my body drawn across its gaze. That one

with the vivid dragging wing, and then from underneath

I felt the other hovering.

On the morning the last Lisbon daughter took her turn at suicide—it was Mary this time, and sleeping pills, like Therese—the two paramedics arrived at the house knowing exactly where the knife drawer was, and the gas oven, and the beam in the basement from which it was possible to tie a rope. They got out of the EMS truck, as usual moving much too slowly in our opinion, and the fat one said under his breath, “This ain’t TV, folks, this is how fast we go.” He was carrying the heavy respirator and cardiac unit past the bushes that had grown monstrous and over the erupting lawn, tame and immaculate thirteen months earlier when the trouble began.

Kenosha is hideous behind us, cloaked by this cloud that hangs

On the pigeons flushed out:  the last exhalation of the auto assembly. 

We wait at the base of the docks, and talk about the White Sox,

Not the Roman Empire.  My father and I stare right at it, but talk baseball.