"Deafness, an Insurgency, Begins."
Our country woke up next morning and refused to hear soldiers.
In the name of Petya, we refuse.
At six a.m., when soldiers compliment
the girls in the alley, the girls
slide by, pointing to their ears.
At eight, the bakery door is shut in soldier Ivanoff's face,
though he's their best customer.
At ten, Momma Galya chalks NO ONE HEARS YOU
on the gates of the soldiers' barracks.
By eleven a.m., arrests begin.
Our hearing does not weaken, but something silent in us
strengthens.
After curfew, families of the arrested
hang homemade puppets out of their windows.
The streets are empty but for the squeaks of strings
and the tap tap, against the buildings,
of wooden fists and feet.
In the ears of the town, snow falls.