I’m six, on a walk with my parents, Saturday late afternoon
My father—the hammer poised above the plate,
My mother—the snake of love,
And I—a girl with a dick;
We set out on the path
traced with my tongue.
When I tried
to eat from the plate
at the edge of the path,
the hammer struck the fingers
of my left hand,
and the snake of love smiled and commanded: Shpatzirn!
We walked along sparse woodlands and main streets,
We walked along waterways and abandoned mines.
And when we sat for a moment on a couch with broken springs,
we ate
yeast cake
and drank
canned juice.
Sometimes there was no sagging couch,
so we walked ahead,
our noses bleeding,
our legs erasing the path
that my tongue traced
the tongue of a son who killed his parents
step by step.