my parents frequently flipped open
the book of quiet conflict. usually
in such a case I'd go walk one of
my childhood's three dogs.
they'd yowl full utopias together.
sister played grandmother and had
bad hearing. grandmother herself heard fine,
but seemed on perpetual holiday in the world
of the waltz. by then grandfather was
his own calm book. we'd read it
out of photo albums together. those were afternoons
heavy and full of smoke like the brocade curtains
in the good parlor. kale green with gold edging:
every guest praised the choice, then the liqueur.
visits were peace races, you'd practice
philanthropy and freedom: here antlers played
the roles of Chairmen on the wall.
after school consciousness began
as a test pattern (channel two), it was soothing
when sister was dying one of her pimple deaths
or grandmother had geared up the turntable
to a tango. I reaped pocket change
from her for my patience, and chocolates.
at first I detested them all, later they were
the sweet local branches of my family tree.
they made my tongue escape.

Translated by JD Schneider