By Yehuda Amichai
How we made love in the memorial forest for the Shoah dead
and we remembered only ourselves from the night before!
The forest did the remembering for us and gave us leave to love.
You remember how we threw off our clothes in the madness of desire:
The outer garments flew like heavy birds to the branches of the trees,
and the underwear remained on the forest floor
clinging to the springy briars of the thorny burnet, like snakeskins.
And our shoes stood nearby, mouths open in psalms of praise.
Sunday, April 4, 2021
By Juanita Rey
He lies back on the couch,
lights a cigarette.
That’s one more reason
why this is not my place.
I would never allow smoking.
And he doesn’t beg for forgiveness.
A butchered haircut he can live with
but guilt is not his style.
That’s why I’m packing all of my stuff
in the blue suitcase.
Luckily, what I came with
is the same size
as what accompanies my leaving.
This wretched piece of luggage
is rectangular shaped, warped in places,
and closes with much effort.
Who’d have thought
snapping it shut
would be the hardest part.
Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Pennsylvania English, Opiate Journal, Petrichor Machine and Porter Gulch Review.