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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3953 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Walk Tammy Peadon September throws sun across the Sola, water so bright it sears the eyes of two old carmelites at rest on its bank, backs pressed against adlers, their habits black as the iron gates of Oswiecim, threadbare as the lie scrolled into its arch. Rosaries depend in decades from their waists. They have walked the judenramp today, stumbled a railroad line in the ghost-steps of millions, passage blurred by catholic tears for the jewish dead; knelt prayer for martyrs of charity in stand-up cells as tourists whisper through buildings with ringed walls embarrassed into silence by the ruins of men. Now they nibble bread with stained teeth, talk in slow voices of the lost, of the left-behind while the Sola pushes her ash like a song through chords of memory, lyrics sown in sediment. They rise on a breeze that stirs the larch; sisters heading home within the long shadows of the day. |
