Graphein

 

This morning I am in Estonia, in memory, Tallinn in winter. Because I am still young when I think on it, I am young and more than a little foolish. 

 

I held a seashell to my ear in the cocktail lounge, pretended I was confiding to the police–recited a poem by the Finnish poet Pentti Saarikoski. 

 

I spread old tales of war across two tables I said, with the satisfaction of knowing I meant it. 

 

I meant that war is always a narrative at first, then a calamity. I meant that brutal stories had been told, were being told, were written on the monolith hotel in graffiti.