Arsenic Lobster poetry journal
Issue Twenty
Summer 2009
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The Exile
Louis Daniel Brodsky

In this remote, five-star, all-American city,
Whose 8200 citizens fit into its three square miles
Like Cinderella's stepsisters' feet
In Wal-Mart plastic slippers from Taiwan,

I try to keep my crucified spirit intact,
Kindle hope that, soon, my soul,
Like summer mist hovering in low-lying valleys,
Will lift, return to its old dreams of New Jerusalem.

For now, all alternatives seem paltry wishes:
Pink and white dogwood petals,
Lavender, bee-bothered redbud bells,
Kewpie-cheeked flowering-crab blossoms

Nipped, in their sweetly innocent efflorescence,
By winter's insidious Indian giver,
Sneaking back for a final peek,
Hellbent on holding Eden for ransom.

Maybe today will veer from its ellipse,
Eclipse lunar illuminations, solar emanations,
As it nears the Light of the World,
Carrying me, bareback, in its fleet effluvium.

Possibly, I'll wake, mount a white-winged palomino,
And gallop off, across the desolation
Edging these three square miles like a Mason-jar seal,
Arrive home, tonight, in time to celebrate my exodus,

With Midianite wife and children grown tall
During the decade I've spent in voluntary exile.
Meanwhile, at least let me forget their gentle faces.
Memory can be the most inhumane enemy of all.

About Louis Daniel Brodsky

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