Poetry - Issue 22 | April 2015

Three poems by R L Swihart


I’m in Dresden. Over-Ibised Prager Strasse. Below me: three alien globes
spraying water. Above me: swallows or swifts (feathered boomerangs
answering to no one’s hand), I can never tell the difference

With one ear, I feel like the son of a mantid and a clam. Oddly enough,
my family has dubbed me Cyclops

I follow the swallows, search in vain for razor and cream, reminisce with
the little green man (“That was your brother in Berlin?”), order a döner
before the kiosks close

I’m in Dresden. Zwinger. Semper. Neumarkt. Frauenkirche is once again
Frauenkirche and not just a pile of rubble. The black stones are diriges
floating in the new cream:

“Old and new stones have been joined to give a clear, meaningful
indication that the past is always part of the future
and that wounds can heal.”

Seems “swift” is more fitting, but the birds aren’t saying a word

Uwe (reeking of Rauchen) meets me in the elevator lobby. His eyes are curious
slits in yellow pouches. Narrow lenses magnify the slits. He smiles and asks,
“English?” “No, American.” “Uuuuu. Can you guess which door will open
first?” Then there’s a bell and two arrows pointing up

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About the author

R L Swihart loves travelling: A circuitous journey from Amsterdam to Poland and back again has just given him a few new beads on his I’ve-been-there bracelet: Aachen, Dresden, Wroclaw, etc. Recent publications include Avatar Review, Burningword Literary Journal, and Rain Magazine.

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