Helene Pilibosian: Á LA COURBET

The Armenian language

did its line dance

while melding with Marseilles,

its alphabet shimmering

like 39 placemats

in gold or silver,

depending on fact

and weather in Gardanne.

The Armenian language

informed us of aunts

with silvered hair,

of an immigration

that was the foundation of a home,

of meeting open markets

with rabbits hung

on rungs of the practical turn.

The Armenian language

spoke its embrace,

heaved a sigh

for what was

and what could have been,

gave its enunciations

to some craggy tales,

then let us go on.

This poem was appeared in G. W. Review