A BALLAD

A cockroach I killed with Wieseltier’s poems
meaty and gleaming and slick
the blood of the roach got stuck to the spine
as cockroaches’ blood tends to stick

I sought to wipe off the blood of the roach
and picked up a worn old cloth
but the blood of a roach is tough as a roach
and so it refused to come off

So I asked of my mother some solvent
to spray on the spine of the book
the book’s heart firmly bound was blotted and browned
but the blood doubled down
in its efforts to stain.

So others I called to bear witness
to how much I wanted it gone
and we scrubbed until tired
with axes and pliers but
the blood of the roach just stayed put.

Then my comforting father
said not to let sorrow ensue:
A book’s but a bundle of paper, don’t bother,
son, make for yourself one anew.

בלדה

בלדה