Poem of the Month

But Comrade

You ask too much.

Surely there are other avenues

to remind the body of its sins.

I hold an existential fear of dread.

 In light slit by childhood’s door,

in the generations past

for whom they came after midnight

bringing a toy train

with straw to shit in.

 Striped pajamas worn politely by all.

Comrade, stand at attention, salute

my great great grandmother

who comes stiffly from bedroom

to chamber to shower,

as I was told, in the gas.

 Is it you again? Haven’t you learned enough

to leave the sedentary body

of age? Don’t wave, it means hello.