To the chair,
To the gas, to the gas,
to the fire,
To the gulling grip of the mass.
be it shameful, be it rare.
The all-consuming hell,
And the flames, small, they turn
Laughing jauntily, at our paralyzing roar,
powerless, slimly, morose,
The fire laughs, then so it goes
A flair streams up the spine,
To the head, to the mind,
To the chair,
To the gas, to the ground.
Will you then admit?
And babies are not different from
And blushes are not different from
And turning plates on dining floors
Are not too different
not at all
And hands, they burst through thick earth-twigs
And roots, and vanity,
And many firsts.
Lots and lots and lots.
Mary Ocher was born in Moscow in 1986, grew up in Tel Aviv, and is now living in Berlin.