I kissed a woman
whose freckles
aroused our neighbors.
Her trembling lips
meant come to bed.
Her hair falling down in the middle
of the conversation
meant come to bed.
I walked in my hospital of thoughts.
Yes, I carried her off to bed
on the chair of my
hairy arms. But parted lips
meant kiss my parted lips,
I read those lips
without understanding
soft lips meant
kiss my soft lips.
Such is a silence
of a woman who
speaks against silence, knowing
silence is what
moves us to speak.
NOTES: These poems are from the unfinished manuscript Deaf Republic. This story of a pregnant woman and her husband living during an epidemic of deafness and civil unrest was found beneath the floorboards in a house in Eastern Europe. Several versions of the manuscript exist.—IK
Source: Poetry (May 2009).
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This poem originally appeared in the May 2009 issue of Poetry magazine
Poet Ilya Kaminsky was born in the former Soviet Union city of Odessa. He lost most of his hearing at the age of four after a doctor misdiagnosed mumps as a cold, and his family was granted political asylum by the United States in 1993, settling in Rochester, New York. After his father’s death in 1994, Kaminsky began to write poems in English. He explained in an interview with the Adirondack Review, “I chose English because no . . .
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