Mystique Poem by Deborah DeNicola

We survived
the blast, the reek of burnt
cabbage, putrid clouds, closer
than we suspected.
Your ears

went inside out. My hair blew
off. A phone rang
in a cemetery. People kissed
thorns and strangled
roses, dread
instead of buds
in the branches

Because a dream seeped
from the factory and fell
through the chain link

fence, your breath, residue
of celestial treble, mute
as you held back

your pale mystique, your
weak eyes that see the world
from its first day. Still
we were alive, treads

of your boots wrenched
from deeper shadows. though
there were codes to decipher,
pages strewn over tombs, no

lexicon to consult
but one slap of moonlight
which spelled

the one word we knew
in that country, that impossible
language.