There is a story
I have known since birth
about the splitting of the sea.
The raging king,
......... the wooden staff,
when wonder set the people free.

The ones I know,
prayed to potato-carts,
they ate their bread with every breath.
They knew the bricks,
they drank the tears
and tens of plagues,
and death.

Sometimes I cry
......... for Exodus.
I pound my chest before my shame.

I played ring-around-the-rosy once.
Once I thought it was a game.

Now I've seen the April snow
cloth from hair and
stone from blood.
Now I've seen
......... the frozen tracks
that shine up from the mud.

No raging souls nor trumpet's blare,
no dark of night,
......... no river's sons.
Only bands at night with wounded arms,
and sewer-pipes,
......... and moonlit runs.

Only freedom in a Russian shout
accented, purposeless and vague.

Sometimes I cry for Exodus,
you need a will to have a plague.
There is a story
......... about a prayerbook,
and a cup of muddy tea.

A broken
......... doll, old photographs,
a pane of glass,

and me.