print previewback ILYA KAMINSKY
I, This Body
I, this body into which the hand of God plunges,
empty-chested, stand.
At the funeral—
Momma Galya and her puppeteers rise to shake my hand.
I fold our child in a green handkerchief,
brief gift.
You left, my door-slamming wife; and I,
a fool, live.
But the voice I don’t hear when I speak to myself is the clearest voice:
when my wife washed my hair, when I kissed
between her toes—
in the empty streets of our district, a bit of wind
called for life.
Wife taken, child
not three days out of the womb, in my arms, our apartment
empty, on the floor
the dirty snow from her boots. 
From Deaf Republic by Ilya Kaminsky. Reprinted with permissions from Graywolf Press.
As Soldiers March, Alfonso Covers the Boy’s Face with a Newspaper
Firing Squad
For His Wife
I, This Body
The Townspeople Circle the Boy’s Body
