Her, At the Red Table
She asks about how to
Walk toward death.
Brisk. A slow shuffle
Jazz step in a dark room.
Will there be blue notes
Or risen sun. Our hands
Cold from reflected snow.
I have a headache, she says
Tossing her heavy hair
Past her shoulder
Its thick shimmer gleaming
Black, a brittle torrent
February begging for light.
Her eyes are seeds of summer
Eager, like sparrows waiting
For the tossing of grain.
The Book of John 2014
Being filled with wonder is harder now.
That thrill of revelation &
heart pounding glow of righteousness.
Since he’s been sleeping outside.
Since he got kicked out of North Station
by the cops last night. Since the security guard
kicked him out from under a car in a parking garage.
14 outside, wind chill of 2 below.
At the Holocaust Museum near Fanueil Market
he rolled up in a couple blankets
two guys from health care for the homeless
gave him. Along with two sandwiches.
Slept on top of the steam vents-
modeled on the Auschwitz gas chambers –
Still. He says. It could be worse.
I could give up and forget where I came from.
I could go back to my suburban home
to my wife even though she cheated on me.
I feel bad that people try to help me when there’s
no help to be had anymore. I still believe
there is wonder in the world. Just not right today.
Julia Carlson likes rock and roll and whiskey on a cold night. A social worker and author of two chapbooks, her work has appeared in numerous local small presses.
Allison Goldin is an artist living in Cambridge. Her work is a collection of spontaneous drawings from the imagination. The most common link throughout her art are the semi-recognizable creatures scattered amongst and bringing together the surrounding doodles. She is currently studying Illustration at The School of Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
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