By Irena Praitis
Römhild Work Education Camp, 1944
Unboxed from the casket
Of my tailored suit
Everything burns:
The disinfection
The prison tunic
The beatings
The cold
By Irena Praitis
Römhild Work Education Camp, 1944
Unboxed from the casket
Of my tailored suit
Everything burns:
The disinfection
The prison tunic
The beatings
The cold
Filed under Poetry
By Irena Praitis
No hood
No spade
No skeletal finger
No ill will
No sweet escape
No justice
Filed under Poetry
By Dane Karnick
After the Sculpture by Deborah Butterfield, 2013
Not the tethered rock in space
but the same desert
for this horse withering
in unforgiving light
Filed under Poetry
by Eugenie Theall
I stand in long, green dashes—
tombstone shadows—like in a Dickinson poem.
Cool air falls in tendrils, cups my face,
murmurs: Poor old girl, still a spinster.
Do you have a white dress? Continue reading
How ironic it is I’m dying of pneumonia, he said, some years
after high school, back when he was dying
and I was still finding out about irony. I was bluff, dithering
Watson to his aquiline Holmes, both of us
harrumphing like a couple of madcap Monty Python colonels,
snifters of brandy and the fake glass eyes
of stuffed tigers, sloths, armadillos and wildebeests glittering
in the firelight. I’d puff on my cheroot (such a great word,
cheroot) and he’d moodily suck the stem
of his streaky old meerschaum. How ironic it is I’m dying Continue reading