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Books for review, chocolate cake, and other paraphernalia:
The Literary Bohemian
c/o Carolyn Harris Zukowski
Po Vodě 55
Český Krumlov, Czech Republic 38101
I touch my wallet in my front pocket, I could do it, purchase // them all, leave the overflowing suitcase on a bus stop bench/ for you, oh stranger, you oh person or persons unknown ...
down a washboard roadside through an old forest, / departing the copse of a quiet village, / we spy a youth dangling protein by the tail,
We followed her in, a stray, the fattest & first, the temple cat./ In a niche by the altar she crouches, watches them come: the/ mad parade we’d wanted, this troupe of heretics — the ass,/ alpaca, gyrfalcon — unbroken line of celebrants, creatures ...
Mother comes to me as I’m making honey cake, / measuring out sugar then whipping eggs. / Never mind that Mother left this earth / eighteen months earlier...
The trolley bus won’t go. / Its reins have fallen / from society's hands.
I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices/ in several African tongues, so far beyond me/ they might as well have beamed from the constellations.
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