This is What the Wound Does
by Florence Weinberger
You slow
you live your life on a molecular level
each joule of pain enhanced
like nerve endings through the lens of a microscope
the dross of the outside world
distanced like neuropathic toes.
On those tapered mornings
that can be gray as uncarded wool
you pull on your compression stockings
take measure of only your pulse and heartbeat
and carefully count each pill into its small slot.
Sleep can be deep or it can morph into
absence, your own, even the buzz of a fly.
Sometimes the wind rattles the shutters
and you are reminded of the drummers
on the beach last summer.
Sometimes a letter comes, a knock on the door.
A tincture of goodness left on the doorstep.
Two people bring salad, napkins and water.
You answer the phone.
It’s a little like leaving Egypt.
Makes Sense
by Florence Weinberger
The poet admits it herself,
her poem makes no sense, she says
it might have started with the death of my salamander,
whose rainbows reminded me of God’s promise to Noah.
When my father died, his ring with the phony initials went to his
grandson, who lost it.
I know my mother is dead, her chipped pot in a lower drawer
since 1978.
I know my husband is dead, his gloves still curled to his fingers.
Both sisters–in–law, left me no trinkets.
Most dreamers, not one syllable of their unreported crimes.
I could add my best friend when I was twelve, a photograph, and
of course, the sea.
The sea and I’m alive.
The sea, and news comes to me, the too young, the very old who
buy new Fiats
(I should be that brave, I should go to Africa.)
We’re decimated, yet one friend’s yearly holiday card expands and
expands,
began with two,
now twenty,
the dog.
Stars like sentinels stand by
by Oz Hardwick
The moon is heavy tonight,
plump and livid, barely clearing
the black ground. Blind and bloodshot,
it eyes nothing. Broken–toothed,
hills snap at its arc, swallowing
light. These are the nights I feared,
swollen with superstition and ill omen,
scratched and pricked by old wives’ tales
and dark mezzotints in the Family Bible.
You read this night before I was born,
in dog–eared cards and damp tealeaves,
thumbed almanacs and the turn of the sky,
milk eyes piercing flesh and futures.
Your scent of mothballs and roses
remembers itself in the empty chill
as the last bite of the moon disappears,
leaving me in the company of swans,
eagles, hounds and hunters; guardians
you set to watch my solitary transit.
Running Man
by Oz Hardwick
Running Man
Prague, Warsaw, Leipzig
There he is, black–clad, blurred
face contorted, chaos in his eyes
before the shield wall, incendiary limbs
lashing the flamebright night. Torn
flags, smashed skulls and windows,
dogs strain and snarl at the wave
of stones breaking on makeshift barricades,
throats raw with gas and smoke.
And he is always there, on the trembling newsreel,
the samizdat sheet, ripped from the crowd,
stark in tracks of the armoured car,
dodging batons and bullets, fist
raised like a banner, proud and defiant,
his image burning like petrol on skin.