The Connoisseur of Jews

Poland/1931

I my mind is stuffed with tablecloths& with rings but my mindis dreaming of poland stuffed with polandbrought in the imaginationto a black weddinga naked bridegroom hovering abovehis naked bride mad polandhow terrible thy jews at weddingsthy synagogues with camphor smells & almondsthy thermos bottles thy electric fogsthy braided armpitsthy underwear alive with roots o polandpoland poland poland poland polandhow thy bells wrapped in their flowers tollhow they do offer up their tongues to kiss the moonold moon old mother stuck in thy sky thyselfan old bell with no tongue a lost uddero poland thy beer is ever made of rotting breadthy silks are linens merely thy tradesmendance at weddings where fanatic groomsstill dream of bridesmaids still are screamingpast their red moustaches polandwe have lain awake in thy soft arms foreverthy feathers have been balm to usthy pillows capture us like sickly wombs & guard uslet us sail through thy fierce weddings polandlet us tread thy markets where thy sausages grow ripe & fulllet us bite thy peppercorns let thy oxen’s dung be sugar tothy dying jewso poland o sweet resourceful restless polando poland of the saints unbuttoned poland repeating endlesslythe triple names of marypoland poland poland poland polandhave we not tired of thee poland no for thy cheesesshall never tire us nor the honey of thy goatsthy grooms shall work ferociously upon their looming bridesshall bring forth executionersshall stand like kings inside thy doorwaysshall throw their arms around thy lintels poland& begin to crow