That Imperiled Moment: U.S./Spain, 1937
after Hemingway, for Pat
Apple trees line the hills along the Jarama River.
Snow blows through olive groves, sifts
against exposed roots, drifts over the mounds
The phone muffled, and
mother no longer home
when the child (rang
with small headboards. "I died for truth,"
the dead call to each other. The gray trees
above them are thin, their branches cut
and rang somewhere
as if behind closed doors
or in the attic where father
to hide guns. The trees will come to life
with small green leaves. Seasons do not change
for the dead, and the earth does not change.
bundled up the suicide’s
gowns and stoles) had no
memory for a long time.
Cynthia Hogue has published three collections of poetry, most recently The Never Wife (Mammoth P, 1999), and has co-edited an anthology of essays on women’s avant-garde writing, We Who Love To Be Astonished: Experimental Women’s Writing and Performance Poetics (U of AL P, forthcoming 2001). Her new poetry collection is entitled Flux (New Issues P, forthcoming 2002). She currently lives in Pennsylvania, where she directs the Stadler Center for Poetry and teaches English at Bucknell University
Potentially, might be ...