Adrienne Rich — The Eye

A balcony, violet shade on stucco fruit in a plastic bowl on the iron raggedy legged table, grapes and sliced melon, saucers, a knife, wine in a couple of thick short tumblers cream cheese once came in: our snack in the eye of the war There are places where fruit is implausible, even rest is implausible, places where wine if any should be poured into wounds but we’re not yet there or it’s not here yet it’s the war not us, that moves, pauses and hurtles forward into the neck and groin of the city, the soft indefensible places but not here yet Behind the balcony an apartment, papers, pillows, green vines still watered there are waterless places but not here yet, there’s a bureau topped with marble and combs and brushes on it, little tubes for lips and eyebrows, a dish of coins and keys there’s a bed a desk a stove a cane rocker a bookcase civilization cage with a skittery bird, there are birdless places but not here yet, this bird must creak and flutter in the name of all uprooted orchards, limbless groves this bird standing for wings and song that here can’t fly Our bird quilted wine poured future uncertain you’d think people like us would have it scanned and planned tickets to somewhere would be in the drawer with all our education you’d think we’d have taken measures soon as ash started turning up on the edges of everything ash in the leaves of books ash on the leaves of trees and in the veins of the passive innocent life we were leading calling it hope you’d think that and we thought this it’s the war not us that’s moving like shade on a balcony