Michael Minassian: EYES ON FIRE
With what burning eyes
do I see the past
the black ash
that eats the edges
of the photographs,
the white ash
that covers my eyelids?
With what burning throat
do I recite the names
no one alive remembers,
names I have reduced to titles,
events, and relationships:
great-grandmother,
brother who drowned in Lake Van,
grandfather’s first wife and son?
with what burning ears
do I hear the wind
traveling from the past;
the sound reaching my brain
with a series of sharp
cracks and scratches,
like old 78 rpm recordings;
the labels written in English
and Armenian –
one language bleeding
into the other,
as the record begins to spin
and I hear the music:
duduk, oud, my own voice?
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