“She Asked Me How”
She asked me how I write my poetry,
And I knew why she’d asked. I also knew
She’d lost my name before the curfew
And meagre rations flung themselves at me.
But I’d another destiny and wrote
What I imagined she might say and told
Myself that she’d never trace the fold,
The scope of my reply; she’d not cope
With what was after all a reprimand.
Nothing stands. She lives, she denies
Her first and last replies; she’ll cry
At any rate, and hope her efforts land
In subtler valleys, held in escrow, there
Where truth at once is everywhere and rare.
…painting by Mark Demsteader…