In the closing <br />montage of the film <br />My Kiev Precincts <br />the village goats trot <br />backward into the <br />main street with their <br />chopped-off heads back <br />on again, the nipples <br />bleed in reverse and <br />reattach to the mother's <br />breasts, the cantor's tongue <br />reconnects and he <br />finishes the prayer <br />over wine—the raped girl <br />stops shaking, the glass <br />in her cut face is <br />a green bottle again, <br />the ladle returns to <br />her hand dipping into <br />a broth—the wood they <br />boarded-over the windows <br />and doors of the filled-up <br />temple before they torched <br />it returns back to the <br />table, returns back to <br />the cart and the door, <br />returns to a pickle <br />barrel, returns to a <br />large puppet with a knife <br />in its boot for the next <br />time—the re-circumcised <br />are de-circumcised, the <br />blood unsprays from the <br />wall—the stomped unconscious <br />appear to be kissing <br />the boot bottoms as they <br />arch back from the raised legs <br />of two men rigidly <br />balanced, their laughter untwists <br />back into their mouths—and the <br />rooster nailed through the eye <br />onto a post with the carved <br />village name drops down and <br />starts to fan his wings around <br />a hen with hot eyes, as <br />though never interrupted, <br />and the hen’s wings toss <br />back the fire set to the <br />thatched roof, which <br />reassembles out of <br />the ashes, which unburn <br />the roof thatch, which begins <br />to barely vibrate from <br />the closer pounding <br />of the men, of the horses.<br /><br />Doren Robbins<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-kiev-precincts-pogrom-holocaust-poem/
