by Linda Pastan
On the small, imaginary
I place on one side
all the scraps memory
has left me, as if I could make
a meal of them . . .
by Leslie Pietrzyk
Cold. Always cold pressing these bones, settling in, waiting. Waiting. Tituba will die if she stay, don’t get back. Die in this cold new land crowded with too many pale men. Wait till spring to drop her under, keep her body in a barn somewhere with the horses till the ground soft again. Then Tituba never get back, never get warm, not if she left behind in this cold dirt. Seen it happen. Dropped in the dirt like a forgotten seed, dropped where the sun never go. Only shadow. Shadow make it colder.
by Louis Simpson
I got out of bed, dressed, and put on my socks and boots . . . carefully, for my feet hurt. Then I wrote myself a pass and made my way to the outer door. The corporal on duty looked at the piece of paper and looked at me, then he waved me through. A decent corporal.
I must have limped for miles, making a round of the bars. For years after the war I would dream I was walking in Paris in streets that were growing dark. I had to be back by nightfall. Just one more street, one more bar, before I’d have to go.
by David Wojahn
In Bruegel’s Hive Keepers, we watch as danger
twists their every movement into gestures
blundering and graceless, elaborate as art . . .
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