Matilda
a magical girl behind a counter
eyes welcoming with the biggest smile
twin disks spin a small bug's song.
no one in the back,
thirsty visitors gather
at small square wooden tables
with fresh light pink blossoms
3 sprigs stuck in to bridge the seasons
that smile, those eyes
the way her hair falls in strands over her soft face
from across the room my gaze
finds nothing and no one but her
like my mother she serves champagne to a young mother
her two friends looking on
made old by their friend's possession
two lovers, under the lamplight of the corner
retire from their plates
to love the literature they kiss over
a secret to sacred to skip
shared; then another bite
just in; bearded, leather
soft voice-making Matilda smile-
for him, a coffee, cookie first
by the window, a girl with a pencil fills in the blanks
reading carefully, signs her name and folds her life in threes
now, a neighbor
a newspaper in another tongue
he and Matilda share a short love letter aloud
and she kisses her sister once on each cheek
as if the sun rose twice today
once for the world
and once for Matilda
a sliver of sky
near trees
still green with spring
white balconies project
littered with nature
placed with care on the edge
mimicking the green
they stand by
over a white umbrella
despite the clouds
by boards, chalky
with offers and with price
but the street comes without price
a free special to strollers
on a Sunday afternoon
buying young vegetables
in bike baskets
and showing their
freed hounds the crisp day
on Dieffenbachstraße
I understand my father more now. Partly from Freud, though I have no desire to kill, eat, and replace him with myself-but mostly from my lone travels. Like his adventures and disappearances, I find myself learning most alone. Content to watch a duck exploring his water as ambulance sirens pass and runners' feet jog by on the moist earth. On a Serra-like jetty over the Spree lies before me a bullet ravaged monument: three men in struggle, forcing themselves into each other, pyramidal over the deep waters and the passing barge. Behind them lies Berlin, in her glory-tall, proud, under construction. Someday I will tell these stories-unbelievable-to an eager ear. Listeners curious of another place-another time even. I will be back, but these are the true discoveries. Like my father, on his bike-searching for the quiet and the noise. Finding both-in utmost perfection-before peddling back to the world given to me by helping hands. Unprotected now, I log my journey in hopes of crystallizing it into my own forgotten history. To share this with him would be an honor.
-
Treptower Park
East Berlin's Disneyland
crumbled with the wall
overgrown and underused
children's voices still squealing from fun
now a fence runs its edge
a wall destroyed-a wall empoloyed
only earth and stone paths
provide a glimpse into the wonder
a fantastical world made dark
by the dawning of a new era
a giant wheel with no motor
train tracks buried by leaves and branch
dinosaurs toppled and games switched off
A fossil, long forgotten by most.
but a tell tale sign of what was
and what wasn't
behind a wall.
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