the final issue





























Hermine Meinhard

Sleeps Under the River


Lately, another sound,
maybe a barn owl. That
is the extent of it. The goats
are shut away. The kitchen
dark. I drink tea.

And then there was, holding
a dead one, a dead child,
and fastening on you his inert smile,
Rimpanek, the marshall
who joined in, drunk.

* * *

That September
at their wedding party
a fat child drank soup
smothering all the fur.

The entire regiment put up in the town
lay about in the field
and picked the almonds.
Rifkin, his dog following,
walked asleep.

Now the cork was broken,
the eggs, the nine omelets,
You took everything
saturated it with whiskey
and brought it to the soldiers.

And it is true, the others
went crazy looking for them.



The Moon Lights Up This Corner of the Grove


Ludwig needs a tonic
coming home without a coat
his head is kaput.

Fodor eats a lump of cream
from the city.
"Is it government cream?"
"Show it here."
"Permit a taste."

Anya has taken the goat,
his head in her lap
while she peels onions.

"Come here, salt the flour,
lay it on the floor."

They find a bed in the vegetables.



That night they lie,
berets soaked, clothes undone,
while at the edge of the wood
two men are seen
wandering onto the plain.


about Hermine Meinhard