Towards the end


of blueberry season, I stroll

to a place guarded by bemused

policemen.   Inside, I look

at words set down by my forebears,

bearded men whose wives ran

grocery stores and stare at symbols

strange to me.  We’re so few,

ephemeral as fleeing clouds on blue.

I do not know these people, nor they me.



Yet in the minor keys

we hear one thing: the rustle

of a book hidden by a child,

in a shtetl, or perhaps Ravensbruck.



by Elizabeth J. Coleman







© 2005-2009 Per Contra: The International Journal of the Arts, Literature and Ideas

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Elizabeth J. Coleman

Spring 2009 Poetry