At night on the bald mountain
with the uneven steps
of narrow sectoral paths

I see witches dancing
between the names on the covers
of the knee-high graves

Bottle in hand
they lie down on the tombs
for some money

I live here with my husband
and four children, but untainted
stay the souls behind the wire

This afternoon, a Korean read
a poem by Zelda at her grave
in his language

He left a flower
I cook for the night men -
Soup with rat poison