"Clarice Lispector" — A Poem by Jeffrey Kingman

by Jeffrey Kingman

Brazilians ask, How was Hell?

Hell dreamt me and I came to life speaking 

jaguarundese.

I was from there, now I’m from here.

The pink so tall it never ends, a forest.

Pernambuco dialect of fruit sellers. I see it

more clearly now … my childhood house, the bridge, the river.

There is a future beyond the body, while the past

is of blood. Everything is between these two sleeps.

With a bag of confetti and a crepe paper dress

Father sent me to the pharmacy on an urgent errand.

Carnival revelers twitched and ticked.

When I returned, at the window she still hadn’t moved.

But she never did. My dad used to move her.

Mother was killed by Ukrainian semen but

died in Brazil where I’d already named

each tile in the bathroom.

Yes, Jews were thrown from trains. I know.

I am Brazilian.

To escape on a vile boat is a puny miracle. It allowed Father to peddle

in northern Brazil where there was nothing but a port.

But I was happy catching mice and stealing roses

the thrill as I broke the stems.

Colors don’t end

they vanish into the air.

In Ukraine they say, “Tell us, Clarice.”

But I won’t. I say something else.