Anne Hohenstein ’76 lives and practices law in upstate New York. She has published poems, short fiction and translations from Spanish and Catalan.
I Cannot Remember What
We were sharing a cup of coffee
and a heel of soggy bread
when we were dumped
deep into the Atlantic
where the blood ran slowly out of our bodies.
We were the escort
for a destroyer full of men,
the officers’ dining table
deployed for surgeries.
My husband declines sustenance from me.
He eats alone sitting with the family,
laughing some at the children’s conversation
I still feed them, the children.
They are hungry often
and this exchange is one I cannot relinquish.
I will need help standing fast
watching his starved frame fatten
in solitude, absent from me
and my strong arms,
my dying love.
His face these days is ghostlike even when he shaves,
laughing some at the children.
This Edge, the Shore
I am going to the shore tonight to let the wind blow through
my heart, to let the sand reset my footing, to let the water, that
enormous, beckoning blackness pull my tears from salt
to salt, egg to egg, bone to bone.
Copyright 2011 Anne Hohenstein