Virtuosi

In memory of my parents People whose lives have been shaped by history—and it is always tragic— do not want to talk about it, would rather dance, give parties on thrift-shop china. You feel wonderful in their homes, two leaky rooms, nests they stowed inside their hearts on the road into exile. They know how to fix potato peelings and apple cores so you smack your lips. The words start over again hold no terror for them. Obediently they rise and go with only a rucksack or tote bag. If they weep, it’s when you’re not looking. To tame their nightmares, they choose the most dazzling occupations, swallow the flames in the sunset sky, jump through burning hoops in their elegant tiger suits. Cover your eyes: there’s one walking on a thread thirty feet above us— shivering points of light leap across her body, and she works without a net.