Sunday, July 01, 2012

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

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