Poetry Issue 15

   Issue #17 : July-December 2012

Dan Kraines



Easter Sunday


      She liked to hang from the fan, her legs dangling
      onto the kitchen table, her skirt riding up her thighs,

      until he had had enough of her hysterics and threw her out.
      The vodka saturated her chest and arms.

      She took her heels off and felt the chill of the sidewalk rising
      into her feet, grasping the back of her heels. Walking to church,

      families averted their eyes—she would have rather wrapped
      herself in her hair and stuck her face in the tuft of her armpit

      than admit she needed help. I asked if she wouldn't like to drive
      north of Salzburg to breathe a little easier and drink a little more,

      not talk about anything, just watch the cows chew their cud.
      Why not. I knew of a party in an old farmhouse in Branau.

      My resolve to take her hardened. Something about
      her orange fingernails digging into the mud.