Fishing for Infinity

They came to me

in their Slavic dresses,
knee socks, black hats, 
and peasant shoes:

asked me in the old tongue
to write a poem for our country:

words upon which those starving
for meaning could feed.

I laughed and replied,

‘You would do better to ask
a saint.  I am but a tender of goats
and bees who can only bring milk and honey.’

They came to me
and asked me to write an anthem
in the old tongue for our country:

a song which could raise
our dead, 
bone by bone, 
from the ditches,

an elegy to drain our dams,
and return, 
stone by stone,
our churches and mosaics

to their original homes.

I sighed and replied,
my fingers poking through
well-worn mittens:

“My cousins — I am but a vintner.
I can only bring barrels of wine
to encourage your candor

or vinegar in jars to pickle 
your unborn chickens.”

They came to me
and told me the hair of their women
had caught fire in their houses
and asked if I could save them.

‘Piva!” I replied.  “I am but a sailor,
but you’ve found the right man.

You’ve opened my eyes —  
mixed spittle with sand.

Everyone, large or small,
seize a bucket
and dash down from the mountains.

Let us form a line
to us to honor the lost:

and separate the grains of their names
like salt from sea.

Montenegro!’ I bellowed,

‘Now is the time
for us to call up the ocean,
dip into the surf,
and fish like mad for infinity!’