In a Time of Peace by Ilya Kaminsky

Inhabitant of earth for forty something years
I once found myself in a peaceful country. I
watch neighbors open

their phones to watch
a cop demanding a man’s driver’s license. When
a man reaches for his wallet, the cop
shoots. Into the car window. Shoots.

It is a peaceful country.

We pocket our phones and go.
To the dentist,
to buy shampoo,
pick up the children from school,
get basil.

Ours is a country in which a boy shot by police
lies on the pavement
for hours.

We see in his open mouth
the nakedness
of the whole nation.

We watch. Watch
others watch.

The body of a boy lies on the pavement exactly
like the body of a boy.

It is a peaceful country.

And it clips our citizens’ bodies
effortlessly, the way the President’s wife trims
her toenails.

All of us
still have to do the hard work of dentist
appointments,
of remembering to make
a summer salad: basil, tomatoes, it is a joy,
tomatoes, add a little salt.

This is a time of peace.

I do not hear gunshots,
but watch birds splash over the backyards of the
suburbs. How bright is the sky
as the avenue spins on its axis.
How bright is the sky (forgive me) how bright.