Drink coffee on the balcony. We watch 

A double-exposed Skopje develop beneath canopies 

Of blushed clouds. The Blue Train drifts 

Down Partizanka and I find my mother 

In the crowd of thousands sobbing red stars backwards 

To form halos above their heads. 

She’s thirteen, and somewhere else in the city 

I am also thirteen but without spectacle –– 

The special police beat a man to death while I call 

My father to wish him happy birthday. 

Tito and I drink coffee on the balcony as the earthquake

Unfurls. We lose the city to the earth and we lose the city to the earth again

But comrade Tito and I still sit. Partizans crawl 

From the rubble in pristine uniforms to liberate us but can’t reach 

The stone bridge. I’m there. I’m twenty-five crossing 

The river with my hands in my pockets. 

Poe and Marx chat, pinned to the lapel of my jacket

And we descend into the line of sight of the soldier

Who is not but definitely is Aleksandar. 

Tito stirs another two cups of Nescafe with a scowl

For the sumptuous rockpile. Nearby,

In the old bazaar, I find a commemorative tea set

With the Marshal plastered on the kettle and cups. 

I buy a magnet with his face for no one in particular. 

Tito and I drink coffee on the balcony. The smog 

so dense, the mountains have become invisible.

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