home no more

stone on

her grave – I

never saw it.

just the flaming

burial roses

 

home, no place. 

she was mine.

clarity only 

in the 

empty house

 

built by father

brick on brick 

filled with mother’s

life and 

loneliness

 

home no more

childhood comfort -

tasty no longer 

nor filling the hole 

in my heart

© beatrixbrockman 6.12.2022

Mother

mother you were
not just mine
but that of all
who sought refuge
with our family. 

always open 
were your arms, 

your heart always 

giving, always thinking
of others, of their joy—
always ready to carry, 

to uplift
and to love. 

love — she was 
your shield, your being.
love — she was you.

© beatrix brockman (2022)

geistzeit

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

Headspace

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.  

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

 

whisper

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 

whisper

© beatrix brockman

sepia

 sepia

 

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