Thursday, July 22, 2010


If I knew you, Anne Frank
there's no time left. here. grab your scarf.
urgency and the pain of farewell are illuminated
by the way you lean against the window
by the way the stained lace curtain hangs
(reminding me of mother's floured apron).
there is danger here in the light of the slivered,
crescent moon and you must grab your coat.

creaking hinges. rusty skeleton keyhole. photos rest now.
cupboards and closets house our memories and lifetimes
and the love we shared on christmas morning,
cider and cookies hang on my mind like a spicy fog.
but it's true that we might die in the street
tonight. the rattle of keys and the shuffle of feet
send me flying and send you to find your breath.

your mitten lays for years on the wooden floor
after you've dropped it, long after you you've vanished
from this place. when i see sparkled sun across the river
i see shards of broken hazel in your sparkling eyes.
i see your tiny face light up as you opened your present.
beautiful refugee. in my dreams, you escaped every time.

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