Watchmen-related Cold War poetry.

[eugenetapdance.livejournal.com]

When We Lived With the Bomb

We had a room in Queens with a couch that opened
into a second bed. I baby-sat odd nights, your father
worked from home, proof-reading phonebooks, some
days leaving only for cigarettes. One night I found
the two of them playing cards. Look who I met
in like at Larry's Liquor. And get this, it knows
my hometown. Later it said the same thing to me
and I was from somewhere else. Did you ever go
to the light house? it asked. Ever take a boat
on Misery Bay and wonder at the dead of 1812?
We knew it wouldn't pay its way, clean house,
or feed itself. Maybe we needed the noise to hide
our silences. Maybe we needed a louder silence.
Anyway, we kept it--bought extra food, extra tickets.
If we went to the movies it sat between us, on the train
it stood and swung, if we fought it took no side but
stayed in the room. I recall thinking we should hide it
from the landlord, then watching with your father
when the landlord met it on the stairs, the way
it nodded confidently. Do you know the old Belgrade
station? Do you remember the woman who sold
fortunes there? She told mine, too. Eventually
we got better jobs, moved to the village. We said
it could stay on the couch, but if begged off, made
excuses about pride. It knew you were coming,
that you would cry, and how long.

Brendan Constantine

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