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December 2006, vol 2 no 4

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Hortensia Anderson

Maybe You Can Come Home

The black behind the mirror never alters—
the scent of death permeates all the flowers.

"I shall take rememberings by dismemberings" the Commandante kindly said "and keep them for you" as he dragged my loves through white snow leaving a jagged red path like a ragged scarf in my memory.

His ice blue eyes looked
blood
shot
but his boots
kept gleaming.

On a too distant cloud,
once
again,
the angel of history
folded her wings and wept.

frozen moon
we face the lighted ground
a single file of shadow