Skip to content

Some days like pulling teeth, rotten roots.

Staring down the barrel of the gun.

Shooting the town clock.

Forty days in the desert.

Fifty days in the desert, no food and water.

The devil sticking out his tongue.

Electric shock. Thunderbolt.

Heroin. Poison in the veins.

Angels beating their wings on your bared skull.

Who will believe you.

Moon in your hands, transparent, luminous.

Cursed by God.

Cursed by mothers, fathers, brothers, the bloody town hall.

Bereft.

Dogs limping on three paws.

The fourth one sawed off by a car wheel, careening.

The devil making faces.

Long red tongue, goats' horns, trampling the streets of Ptuj,

announcing spring.

Licking licking. Cunt or wound.

Bad gas leaking from stones, earth fissures.

Nettles. Poison ivy. Bee sting.

Rotgut. Fungus on your toes.

Wild strawberries low to the ground, cheating the lawn mower.

A wall waiting for the wrecker's ball.

Clear vodka. Ice.

The poets reflect on their craft

Di Brandt

More from
Poem of the Week

Dzvinia Orlowsky

Wine of Angels

translated from the Ukrainian written by
Natalka Bilotserkivets