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Natasha W. Dworkin
©2002 Natasha W. Dworkin
Antofagasta
Here the sands stretch and stretch
rising up to distant radiant mounds
then sinking back to nothing as we arrive
more gray miles beneath our wheels and gone
ninety on a road littered with steel carcasses
and tidy white crosses
dripping with roses
tired, reeking, we are catapulted toward the
ocean
which we know must
somewhere
glimmer on the horizon
with reeling birds
whatever happens, we say
we held hands under the table while we made
these plans
we pointed to the map
we charted our course in red
your mother asked me to take care of you
and we laughed out loud
Here it hasn’t rained for fifty yearsshe
points to the bucket on the roof catching mist
we shower for no more than two minutes
once a week, she says
is that what she said?
Here we communicate in gestures
a raised eyebrow
a disapproving glare
a nod or a shake of the head
we’re weary of the dust and heatthe grime under our fingernails
and the sound of each other’s voice
when we get to the city we walk
four miles to El Centro
in silence
to save money
ten paces between us
Here cockroaches skitter under the bed
and up the walls
there are no windows
no fan
just wind howling through the corridor
and shouting angry boys drinking pisco
four locks on the door
the difference between us and them
we each slide under the sheet
exhale
and turn our back
to the one person in the world
who speaks our language
©2002 Natasha W. Dworkin
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Erik
Linzbach
© Erik Linzbach
Brilliance
The genius sits crouched,
quietly in a corner, scrambling,
scrambling in desperation to finish.
There is no deadline, except,
for the one set in his own mind,
completing work in his time.
The only sound in the room,
the pencil, its furious strokes,
gashing and marring the pad.
Intensity, concentration, perspiration,
all now ooze from his brow,
scrunched up as the furor continues.
With a sudden stop,
the rage is over, and,
the genius sits quietly.
Quietly smiling down at the pad,
eyes dancing over the scribbles
and the moment of brilliance has past.
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