Benya by Philip Sultz
In the center of town is the
big cedar that you would often
pass, the only one left standing.
It could be you, and we wouldn’t
know it. Who can go through
a mist where everything is
buried, where even the fields
don’t know you? Certainly
the mothers could, but they’re
gone as well. There’s probably
a place with all the parts,
including the intestines, and
some hardy filament formed
with alacrity and pride, no
longer visible to the eye.
As Montale said, beyond
the ravine, the twinkling of the
galaxy that soothes all wounds.
Take my hand Benya.
Rafael by Philip Sultz
Our ribs will hold us
together, link us with
wings, if need be. We will
conspire to freeze time,
at least till the next
thaw. We will follow the
sleigh tracks through the
snow of Stalingrad to the
requiem we will hear, and
together we will sit on the
back end of our horse drawn
dray and kick our heels.
We will resurrect a better time
and leave your little mound
of death for awhile. We’re
strong, Rafael, even now.
