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ETERNAL SPRING
Spring has arrived, however begrudgingly,and the young woman pushesthe older woman’s wheelchairalong the paths of the great park.Neither speaks, but each knowsthis could be the last time they do this.That shared knowledge paintseach flower in a more vibrant hue,each fallen petal is quicklybut individually mourned for,its beauty draining back into the soil.The older woman struggles…
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LINKAGE
Linking things is a human need,tenuous forces barely holdingacross synapses easily brokenor lost, never to be replaced. Ithaca is forever joined withGalway City, and I still have notfigured out how to get the twopeople together as together isobviously what they should be. She sits at a small tablein the Commons, staring, waitingperhaps for a writer…
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ON THE SHELF
He found the cup by the curb one morning walking to the bus. He rarely notice things on his walk, thinking always about the day ahead. But this day he saw it, picked it up and put it in his messenger bag intending to clean it later, when he got home after work. He had…
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THE FROG
I can still smell the formaldahyde,see the frog pithed to the boardas I went about dissecting it,taking copious notes on whatI found, identifying organs,both of us hidden in a cornerof our fourth grade classroomso the other students didn’tfeel like they had to vomit. This Yom Kippur, even thoughI no longer practice the faithof my youth…
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WHEN
We are told that we cannotlive in the past, that would bea senseless waste of the present. But we cannot live withoutthe past for then there would beno true present in which to live. So we are left to hover betweenthe past and its absence,knowing the present will soon be the past, there or gone,caught…
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TO PROTECT THE INNOCENT
I am there, a classroom,elementary or middle school,Charleston, West Virginia1930’s, girls in proper skirts,saddle shoes, the old womanat the front of the room,first day of a new year. “Jones”, a hand goes up,“Murphy”, another rises slowly,“Padlibsky, what kindof name is that, Jew, orsome kind or Ruskie maybe?”A small voice answersLithuanian, ma’am. A scene that neverhappened,…
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DAYS LIKE THIS
Then there are the dayswhen I play the buffoon,the juggler whose ballscome crashing to the floorbringing tears to the crowdof joy or sorrow, I cannothope to tell, for this dayI can only flail about,the circus clown, and youhad best keep your distancelest I break you as well.
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THIS LAND (IS) WAS MY LAND
I would very much liketo look down from above,unseen by those below,in my country, see the turmoilroiling so many, the linesformed at borders, a queuefor those deemed less valuable,and I wonder where in the linemy ancestors would bewere they still alive.I wonder what lifewould be like if Iwas born in Lithuaniaor if my parents never…
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HEY TEACH
She is long departed I imagine,and she would have had nomemory of me given the numberwho passed through her roomin the decades she stood impartingthe sort of knowledge that wassomehow tucked away, notforgotten, for it bubbled forthyears later, the aha moment. I could not forget her, whyperhaps she was a key to my passwords, the firstquestion…
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ENDGAME
He knew it was timeto call it a career whenthey handed him the listof what he could not say,what terms were verbotten,what topics were off limits. Once upon a time he watchedthe fight over textbooks,how they approached sensitivesubjects like race, war, equality,but he could teach aroundwhatever strictures theywould ignorantly impose. But now whole topics,entire aspects…
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an old writer and his words 