I sit at my big oak table in Wien, heavy
middle of my room for mooring, toss
like a tree polished and placed at the
in a sea of sorrows swirling unbeknownst
in the quiet Gasse below. No one
knows about them except perhaps
the woman with the hijab at the corner
waiting for the light to turn green. Or the
aubergine seller at the Marktplatz. Or
maybe Frau Ibrahimi the cashier at the
drogerie where you can buy organic
quinoa, drawing pencils, eyebrow pencils
anti-aging serum, cleansers for your toilet
and curcuma tea. No one knows of them
except the students at the university
arrested and carried off by mostly polite
police receiving orders from powers far
away. No one knows except for those
who do, who wait for news from family
without bread or tea of any kind or toilet
or family no longer sending news
because “self-defensive” bombs
have silenced them forever.
