When you returned they
Were waiting for you:
A man and woman
In black clothes, with that
Officialism
About them, that look
Of eyes and stance. Your
Clothes had gone; the oak
Wardrobe and chest of
Draws had been emptied.
There were only the
Clothes laid on the bed:
A grey dress, stockings,
Underwear, an old
Cardigan. Put those
On, the woman said,
Pointing to the bed.
In front of him? You
Said, indicating
The man. The man turned
To face the window,
His hands clutched behind
His ramrod back like
An angry father.
The woman stood and
Watched you undress then
Dress again in an
Icy silence, then
Took the clothes you had
Taken off and placed
Them in a bag at
Her feet. The man turned
Around and grunted
At you to walk to
The door. What of my
Children? They are at
School, you said. They are
No more your concern,
The woman replied,
Pushing you towards
The door. Stealing rye
Is a crime, the man
Said. My children were
Starving, you replied.
Are your children then
Special? What of the
Other children of
The State? If all stole,
Where would the country
Be? You looked up at
The dull wall as you
Walked towards the door,
Stalin’s eyes followed
You from his cheaply
Framed photo above
The bed. Was there cold
Humour there? Or was
It just a trick of
Light playing with your
Eyes and heart and head?
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 5:13 AM UTC
When you returned they
Were waiting for you:
A man and woman
In black clothes, with that
Officialism
About them, that look
Of eyes and stance. Your
Clothes had gone; the oak
Wardrobe and chest of
Draws had been emptied.
There were only the
Clothes laid on the bed:
A grey dress, stockings,
Underwear, an old
Cardigan. Put those
On, the woman said,
Pointing to the bed.
In front of him? You
Said, indicating
The man. The man turned
To face the window,
His hands clutched behind
His ramrod back like
An angry father.
The woman stood and
Watched you undress then
Dress again in an
Icy silence, then
Took the clothes you had
Taken off and placed
Them in a bag at
Her feet. The man turned
Around and grunted
At you to walk to
The door. What of my
Children? They are at
School, you said. They are
No more your concern,
The woman replied,
Pushing you towards
The door. Stealing rye
Is a crime, the man
Said. My children were
Starving, you replied.
Are your children then
Special? What of the
Other children of
The State? If all stole,
Where would the country
Be? You looked up at
The dull wall as you
Walked towards the door,
Stalin’s eyes followed
You from his cheaply
Framed photo above
The bed. Was there cold
Humour there? Or was
It just a trick of
Light playing with your
Eyes and heart and head?
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