By Bogi Takács
In memoriam Miklós Radnóti
The flood comes; I am leaving.
Mole tunnels crisscross the thick soil of the banks
and spring lies in wait, ready to send
the rolling, dirt-brown waters down from the Alpok
carrying twigs and an all-human collection of trash:
shopping bags, red flashes of cola bottles.
A sound as if you rubbed thin sheets of plastic –
molehills dotting the scrawny growth
of grass on the moldering inclines.
I leave, then I return
to see trees hacked apart with chainsaws,
cores claimed to have gone to rot
in the floodwaters of the previous season –
columns of ants thread around boles
unblemished save for the jagged cuts;
all is as the municipality had declared.
Truths stream away between the high banks
while statues of kings drone in unison.
I shall leave again
while the cobblestones are polished smooth
by black-booted feet marching in lockstep,
mimicking armies of a bygone time –
youths growing mustaches with determination,
playing at soldier, evictor, liquidator
with increasing ease, then raucous joy;
the crowds of tomorrow repaint
yesterday’s photos with the sepia of blood.
The flood comes; I am leaving.
Bogi Takács works in the University of Iowa Word Learning Lab by day, and writes poetry and fiction by night. E has had work published in venues like Strange Horizons, Lightspeed, Clarkesworld and Nature, among others. You can visit eir website at www.prezzey.net. This article was originally published in Little Village issue 197.
