Elisabeth Reidy Denison is a writer and editor from Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Thrush, Bodega, Comparative Literature Undergraduate Journal, and elsewhere.
Of everything? Mostly your face windowed
on the train south from Prague.
Slavic folk forest with stopped waterfall a prelude
to sudden Slavic flatlands, farmland once and now
again, presumably, farmland.
Black line of a broken wire fence tripping
over the whiteout ground, which kept on
expanding like a spill toward every corner.
And all about us, wedged in our seats,
the McDonald’s detritus of our American rush.
Winter, so the afternoon went fast.
We had been talking earlier
about our grandmothers, or we were
about to, or that was another trip,
Of everything, the flashbulb brightening
of your face when you turned toward me
for the first time all hour: this close
to your party face, your HELLO
face, its underside. It, ambushed.
And your hair also was reflected in the glass.
Palimpsest with dormant grass. Back to the land,
et cetera. Or: left there. It may have been snowing
behind you, too. It was actually pretty
difficult to tell.
Between the Reckless Immediate and the Very Many Pasts
I love you all hopped up
on cigarettes and Club-Mate, madly
running from church
steps to church steps,
trying to stay out longer
than the rest of us,
out front of the day,
consulting no one
but the spires in the morning.
we don’t live in cathedrals
and we don’t live in Alexanderplatz.
Tense of heart in our
floppy sneaks, our excess
fabric, I understand none of us
imagined being so teased by a city.
All week you’ve been teaching me
to do a useful thing proficiently.
The tops of my hands are
bleeding again from trying,
and I just let them. I love the runoff.