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Poem Trumps Hate

Month

April 2017

The Princess Brat

There were two books on my bedside table that I thought I should open.

They promised to teach me German.

Too late to teach me my German, for certain.

And who could know the mind of one of those?

But if I did learn it, wouldn’t it be a learning at least? A victory over the things I learned on the Spree?

The words for bread

(brot)

and bride

(braut)

particularly?

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In The Day Before I Met You

I confessed my sin,

A lack of faith,

To the Catholic priest.

 

In reply he told me

Do not try to fly

Into the face of the Lord.

 

The wooden box made it hard to anyway.

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Grandfather

Having never seen it before

Or caught a blonde tangle in the stubble of your chin

Or felt your cheek with a friendly kiss

How could I have known, all this time

About the mask of your face ensconced on mine

Protecting me like armor

Blessing me with handsomeness.Leighton-God_Speed!.jpg

Dramatic

Dramatic

Was an insult slug

Like a mud-filled sock

At her nine-year-old self.

Who could at fifteen feel real hate,

A heart grating against the rocks of life,

The slow hand of time rippling

Across the suburban prairie like an enemy.

At twenty-five, perhaps, she is more apt

To call it passionate,

And at thirty she considers it ecstatic,

She calls it being.

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