selected past writing at 42opus
This is the story of my grandfather Benjamin Simonds
who survived Auschwitz. He kept
a scrap. Torn label of a can of con-
densed milk. He took dictation. He
dictated. He flipped the dialectic flapjack. He was
a gambling man. People think prisoners don't gamble.
Gamblers are always and only prisoners.
Once he told me that the spine is a prison.
24 April 2010 | poetry
Say the black road
is a bleached crest raveling
the one distance
meant for you (all of us).
Two loose pennies in a pocket
abandoned forever to the lint trap
dusty unders of a shelf
weed pushing up through a road crack
bum bundled on the corner begging
when it is everywhere
pause for the next heartbeat
19 April 2009 | poetry