THE DEAD HOUSE
We didn’t mention it to the adults because as soon as
the kitchen window opened the cloud of smoke rose
sideways and stayed over the hallway, high cloud,
threatening, with a glass helmet with a hanging horse
tail; a lone, aromatic cloud, beastly and fleshless,
with no bones yet powerful. Thus, we were listening
behind the doors up to midnight until a red, sparkling
sleep took over us). Yes, the soldiers were singing,
joking with the servant girls, sometimes they took off
their boots and rubbed their thick toes with their hands,
then they’d wipe the wine off their fleshy lips
or they scratched between their hairy legs
they’d grab the breasts of women accidentally
and they sand again (we opened to them even in
sleep), they sang with their faces covered in the
dirty hair, maintaining the rhythm with their barefoot
legs on the tiles or with their fingers on the water
pitcher or the glass or the flat wood they used
to mince meat on the table, in a low tone so
they wouldn’t be heard by the officers inside; then
their Adam’s apple went up and down like a knot
of a thick rope pulled by two opponents, like the knot
of a rope pulled from a deep water well, like a knot
in your viscera.
Manolis Aligizakis 