A Grave
Janine Canan
A large white lady pads past me, grimacing because I have let a man in my room. A little redhead limps over to my door, reminiscing about the War--how the Russians raped all the women and stole her furniture. She wants me to stay all day and fill my oven with smoking briquettes. Is shocked when I cut off my long brown hair. On the window ledge, under portraits of Goethe and Schiller, I set my flowering heather. On the old oak desk, my unfinished translations. On the slim hard bed my burgundy spread. When the snow falls in December I wake up and pack my bags, buy the return ticket and leave the heather. Behind the door the tall one shuffles. The short one shudders--
Don't you know heather belongs on a grave.
