TO ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI

TO ADAM ZAGAJEWSKI


The River Vistula divided those who burned
from those who watched them burn,
while the bridge, like all bridges,
silently offered its back.
I am speechless in the country you left,
like a towel that's been wrung dry,
nothing to say and nothing not to say,
centuries of unheard screams
and forestsful of saved-up silence.
In Warsaw, all I'm certain I have
is ten fingernails with chipped red paint,
a copy of your book, and a slew of sadness
that trails me everywhere I go.
This cold grey light.
This meeting again with the idea of death.
I want to give birth
to a child who will carry on in God's name.
Adam Zagajewski, I am reading your poems
in Warsaw, and you are saving my life.