Current Poetry

phph6RZfb.jpg

From December 2006



Siempre

She tells me through the vent from the cell below that they’re taking her on the morning train to the pinta, that the guards have already packed everything but her sheets, blue jumpsuit, and towel

Through the floor, with my heart as with an eye, I can see her as she sits on the bunk, face cupped in her hands, elbows propped on her thighs, cheeks smudged by fingermarks and tears, her dark hair eclipsing her knees.

I try to reassure her with wisdom I do not have, and hope I try to fake, that the hammer and anvil of coming days will forge us into something stronger.

By the time they unlock my cell at breakfast, she has already gone. But later as I walk back in my boxers from the shower, an older guard, the kind one, slips a note into my hand, whispers, She sent her love. Back in my cell I unfold a note that says Te amo siempre in crude letters formed by a finger menstrual blood.



--William Aberg The Listening Chamber, used with permission. University of Arkansas Press, Fayetteville, 1997



On the Line

On the line at the packinghouse you laughed, cursed, told stories your earrings swinging hands flying we played “Beat The Clock” night after night.

Chicago Gary Texarkana Mississippi Monterey Laredo & Laos we stood together our hands in constant motion against the cold bent over in our white coats moving boxes and more boxes racing against the conveyor belt ‘til our eyelids were stuck at half-mast.

Together we cried together we laughed together we tried to set things right.

We were dogged until we quit, got fired or were bought-off – & then laid off. But just by coming together the world lost much of its ugliness.

After surviving The Wrath of Karen & the Saturday Night Speed-Up never again would we look at other people struggling like us as enemies, aliens or freaks: assuming co-workers asking where we live are trying to pry into our business crossing the street & averting our eyes when we see people picketing downtown hotels or lined up outside the Harbor Lights emergency shelter.

--Lucy Duroche Blue Collar Review Winter 2006 www.partisanpress.org







Note: Poetry published in past issues is not archived on this website. Request back issues of the print edition at pa-service@politicalaffairs.net.