Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Life, you’ve killed off the faces of my childhood.
The old man who,
with shaky hands outstretched
reached over formica countertops
to place peppermint sticks
and butterscotch rounds
in my tiny hands,
was shot to death ten years ago.

I hope the money
set well in their pockets.
.45 stole a hundred dollars,
seventy years, a husband;
put a hole in the fruit-stand wall
and left a bullet wound in my toddling soul,
because a child cannot understand
why there are no more peppermints.

And a week ago life laid to rest
the man who made me consider
my last name.
who, every Saturday
with the thickest of accents
carried me across the atlantic
to the ruins of Augsburg,
the hills of Garmisch,
the streets of Munich,
with but a bite of Brochen.

Who, hands coated in flour,
would sculpt for strangers
intricate strudels,
from water and rye,
and delicately slip such treasures
into plain paper bags.

And I, ten years later
Cannot understand
Why there is no more bread.


  1. I agree.
    you're so good at writing...
    I wish I had super powers like you!
    it's so beautiful, yet so sad...
    with a little bit of angst... at least that is what I get from it.

  2. crap! i remembered that you were there after i wrote that, but i started thinking about something else i wanted to say and forgot to put you on the list. so sorry, friend. see you soon!