Donnerstag, 11. Februar 2021


wie zwillinge -
deren zellen sich
im mutterleib nicht
trennten - so 
verwachsen sind
diese virustage.
aneinander reihen
sie sich endlos
im zurück wie
im vor. der jänner
von vor einem jahr
unwirkliche erinnerung
an was man tat 
und tun durfte
die zukunft, die
sich vor uns ergoß
inzwischen verdunstet
zwischen isolation 
und masken
fragst du dich 
was wird

© beatrix brockman


Like twins 

Whose cells never

Separated in the womb

So conjoined are

These virus days

Endlessly strung 

In the back and

The forth. Last January

Unreal memory

Of what we did 

Were allowed to do

The future, then 

Clear before us

Evaporated by now

Between isolation 

And masks

You ask 

What will be.  

Mittwoch, 2. Dezember 2020

Even if

Even if 
I cut this moment into strips
and braided them into my hair;

even if
I wrapped your kisses into silk
and dried them between Neruda's words;

even if
I framed
the pinned butterflies;

even then 
this moment would only
last its eternity.

© beatrix brockman


Dienstag, 27. Oktober 2020

Berlin in the Morning

coffee running through 
the porcelain filter 

it's hardly dawn

outside a raven 
is croaking early 
as the pine floors 
creak under naked 
feet & the regular 
breathing from 
the other room 
quiets my heart

the disembodied 
muezzin's voice from 
the apartment below 
is part of this morning's
sound pattern
all is well

©beatrix brockman

Donnerstag, 13. August 2020


for six years you 
stood outside — nose
pressed to the window
of whispered words 
stamped confidential 
now you stand at
the threshold, hesitant
to walk through the door
— whether you want to or not — 
your turn has come to 


© beatrix brockman


a cut

a gash


incisions (six)

daVinci* style 


though healed

they’ve separated 


the seams of life 



while ring and rings 

stay closeted 


©beatrix brockman


Mittwoch, 12. August 2020




in photography 

you’re still alive, 

one young and wiry, 

beautiful, the other 

her long hair coiffed, 

bouffant above the brows

in sepia forever frozen

both the soprano 

and the baritone. 


past your frames 

my path leads every day

but rarely do I focus 

on the woman or the man 

my parents captured

too in kodak-color.


so loving was your voice 

so rare on paper, too afraid 

that seven years 

of schooling only 

might yield mockery


how precious now

the cursive speaks  

to the “little one, beloved 

and so far away” 

whose heart crossed 

oceans every day.


and so I linger and reflect 

head bent over words 

– more valuable to me

than gold – and stand before 

your pictures that once

will perish until nothing 

shall remain of us.

© beatrix brockman