“There’s no sense in talking about them as people
any longer.” They’re nameless now,
their names have lives of their own,
they’re large landowners in the acreage of history.
It’s out of style to remember them, but you do,
the faces and the names;
they’re part of the landscape,
stony, permanent,
carved on the face of the past:
the calm mouths shaping the sounds,
the white fists clenched on the table,
and the names, pouring forth so easily,
mellifluous, numerous, proud—
the made-up names, the unpronounceable names
that rolled off their tongues like their own.
North of Childhood
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