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Ann Fisher-Wirth Liège, the Barges, Rain

Narcissi shiver, all in the same direction. A small gray dog cowers, its coat drenched, on the cobblestones down by the Meuse. The barges grow blacker; dark comes early or never leaves, and the clothes, washed and hung out days ago, are sodden, the blue sleeves of work shirts and the lank brown skirts of housewives’ dresses hanging like the grief and hair of drowned men. Children with runny noses press their faces to smoky windows. Pancakes sizzle and sputter on the grease-caked, coal-black stoves beside the limp lace curtains, above aspidistras and leggy red geraniums that say “home,” that say “chez moi,” “me voici la femme.” And in the rain the sad river pocks and pebbles, river of a million moments. In the rain the river slides endlessly. Nothing is as dirty as a slag heap in the rain. Still, beneath quilts they are warm, on barges.

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