This blog is read by more people than I keep track of, and linked to the school where I study (who, by the way, have yet to feature my writing here). Those are two good reasons who I shouldn't post my own poetry. But this one is called "Copenhagen," and was written here, so that excuses it. Also, everything in this journal is written by me, and this is no exception.
Describe a lake as seen by a young man who has just committed murder. Do not mention the murder.
-From “The Art of Fiction” by John Gardner (1983)
Two white curtains in a rented room
sit heavy on their dusty sill. Her body already aches
for this place, braces for the separation. The visa in her coat
is counting days.
At the window, she thinks of
two men who never saw this city, and tries to measure
how long she will watch the cars, smell the smoke,
rinse reminders off her palm.
America is only a place
where great aunts sewed dresses and great Depressions
hung fathers. She threw that story away
and came to the old world to breathe its harbor air.
Describe a city as seen
by a young woman who has lost.
Do not mention the loss.