In Stuttgart you gave me Georg Trakl
and said, “This is how you paint with words”.
We made each other’s lonely eyes sparkle,
a sparkling that was years overdue,
but that blank canvas Berlin was beckoning me,
and a dacha was beckoning you.
In Salzburg you gave me Yevgeny Zamyatin
and said, “This is how you stare at the future”
as we hiked among hedgehog and housemartin
where Alpine April blizzards blew,
but that crystal ball Berlin was beckoning me,
and a dacha was beckoning you.
In Leningrad you gave me Jacques Brel,
who left huge toothprints in my verse,
and Serge Gainsbourg, a genius who
could build a brothel out of a hearse,
but that bruise Berlin was beckoning me,
and a dacha was beckoning you.
In Moscow you gave me Mikhail Bulgakov
and a city enfrenzied with the mark of
the devil’s pet cat, as you laughed, “It’s true,
you’re not a worker but a clown bee!”
Still, that hive Berlin was beckoning me,
and a dacha was beckoning you.
In Prague you gave me Franz Kafka,
then we sat in a taxi with brandy and wine.
The driver pointed a pistol mafia-
style at us, cursing his square face blue,
while that bullseye Berlin was beckoning me
and a dacha was beckoning you.
In Checkpoint Charlie MacDonald’s, with ketchup,
you told me, “I can see your problem.
Girls don’t make your intellect stretch up,
they bore you senseless, through and through.”
But that home-from-home Berlin was beckoning me,
and a dacha (and motherhood) you.
