Ilya Kaminsky
They shove Sonya into the army jeep
one morning, one morning, one morning in May, one dime-bright morning—
they shove her
and she zigzags and turns and trips in silence
which is a soul’s noise.
Sonya, who once said, On the day of my arrest I will be playing piano.
We watch four men
shove her—
and we think we see hundreds of old pianos forming a bridge
from Arlemovsk to Tedna Street, and she
waits at each piano—
and what remains of her is
a puppet
that speaks with its fingers,
what remains of a puppet is this woman, what remains
of her (they took you, Sonya)—the voice we cannot hear—is the clearest voice.
From Deaf Republic (Graywolf Press, 2019)
Republished with permission from the poet.