kofi awanoor

They Shall Know

Voices, single row of nights
where the birds long died;
the iron clang of the door.
What dreams are possible here?
John pitted with smallpox
sat near the wayside shop
weary.

Outing once in three weeks
flags, buntings
signs announce the fair.
Silence over the city
we wind our way through the sleep walkers
My keepers chatting gaily
of power and politics and power
for governments, national language
trials and reprieves.

At the end they gave me an egg
and two pieces of white bread
which I broke before my wife.
It is exactly one month today.