poetry: “Names You Can’t Pronounce”

I
Another summer in a town you know
like the backs of your knees and just
as sweaty. Nights aren’t much cooler.

Sometimes, when you walk out late to think
or just stare at your hands swinging
next to you, the green smells

of the Russian olive surrounding
the synagogue push at the back of your throat. Too big a mouthful,

so you stare at your hands which are
swinging soft and pale at the end
of your wrists and listen to cicadas
chorus their unknown tragedy.

II

You have two lovers. One knows you best
but his hands are soft, pale, female
like your own. The other tastes the back

of your knees, but won’t make love
to you. You stare at his knuckles
when he works, square and browned

from summer jobs. With the first
you take long walks past the synagogue
to a park with a war memorial.

The names there are thin, tragedy
chipped into black marble: Cassavettes,
Beacom, a Russian name you can’t pronounce,
all of these men, to you, unknown.

III

You can see the synagogue from
the window of your bedroom, wake
to the sign: FREEDOM FOR SOVIET JEWS.

The women downstairs have made love
and now they fight. It’s a tragedy,
they were friends before

they were lovers. The man living in
the basement is old, a veteran. Says
he hates Krauts, likes Russians.

The summer mornings are soft and pale
and when you wake from sleep
your hands flutter against the sheet;
the backs of your knees ache.

- Erin Belieu, "Names You Can't Pronounce"