tears drip on cold brisket
in a not quite empty room
where broken toys snivel
at thoughts of sweaty arms
and flimsy sheets while wondering
where the dollhouse went

Ma doesn’t know that
I sneak out on Doko days –
those Mondays of madness when
honeyed tricks sift onto brandy
laced tea cups and pinched skin

on Skalitzer Street sooty soldiers
dust my feet in darkness
above me
peach silk
peach knees
below me
brown shoes
brown earth
above her
white light
white clouds
below her
yellow hair
yellow stars

we look on
we look on

you are lost to us

————

This is the third in a series of five poems inspired by the photography of Constantine Brassaï.