| The New World by David Salner | ||
I have been imagining how my grandmother would have left Hungary, with only a sweater to cover her bones, squinting at the sun in the haze of the ocean, as her new husband plays something like a guitar, but smaller. She joins him in a chorus about a horse who responds to the touch of a Gypsy trainer but not the whip of the Hungarian master. These newlyweds left in a hurry, carrying only the little guitar and the old gray sweater. The wind whips over the great steel decks as she tells a joke about the subtle difference between luck and fortune. They squint at a spot suspended over the ocean. Even I see it— that opal haze, brilliant with vagueness. DAVID SALNER'S poems
have appeared or are forthcoming in Prairie Schooner, |