RODAK

Local 666

Because I was not one of the dead

I spoke out.

But when they came for the living

I found myself in a dialectical mist,

Redolent of poster paints and lilies,

A thumb-smudged copy

Of Man's Fate in one hand

And a spade in the other.

The iron ground was frozen.

The road was blocked

By limousines.

The black-clad women

Covered their hair:

They turned their ankles

On the gravel.

The earth resisted

The strength of my limbs,

But I had to dig it.

My union card was on my hip:

My gun was in my locker.

It started to snow like hell.