Three Traditions of Death Smierc wije sie po plotu
szukajaca klopotu

Death was hanging around
looking for trouble

—Old Polish song

I

A crow, the colour of bone, grabs his biretta
from the drag of the wind and tenders me his coins of hate.
He crosses the buried axe and my house shivers
black and yellow with the flicker of candle flames.
Outside, I lie awkwardly wedded to the ground.
That devil drinks my vodka and my children chatter.
They’ve planed a linden plank, smooth and straight,
and laid it out between a pair of wooden stools.

A dog’s bark cracks the ice and wakes
the old gods who shoulder through the altar-stones.
Aching, I call and she comes, a woman of grace,
too tall for a room and too thin for a breast, she sits
astride and heavy on my chest. She breaks my fingernails
and pushes me down, gently down, into the earth.


II

Below, the village boys have stuffed you full of straw
and soon, they’ll cheer and take you from the street to church,
’though not to pray. The belfry’s where you’ll go
and once you’re there, they’ll curse your name and throw
you down, back to the street. Then rooks will drop and perch
upon your eye and clack around your shattered jaw.

Up here, I’ll watch it all. I’ll see them vie to take
what’s left of you and drag it down the riverbank.
They’ll rip your body, bit by battered bit,
and I’ll rejoice (the perfect hypocrite);
and when they’ve tossed each piece to where the last one sank
I’ll watch them kneel and cross themselves for Jesu’s sake.


III

Death was hanging around
looking for trouble.

So we covered her eyes,
knocked her down,
smacked her round
and all the boys
had a bit.

We wiped her face,
dusted her off
and dressed her up
in rags and weeds
and blades of grass.

Taking turns,
we waltzed her round
the edge of the lake
and filled her hands
with copper coins.

Then we stomped her down
and drowned the bitch

and ran.

Whooo boy,

how we ran!

Green branches held high,
leaping like pike
squeezed out of water,
weaving like pigs
away from an axe.
Our feet threw down thunder
as we roared through the trees
and out through the fields.

The bitch
was still on our heels.