Graphic Design Helene Zuckerbrod


Scattered among the relics of a crumbling house
I find a baby’s spoon black and superficial,
a tempered letter the lives of which I know none,
stamps, plastic flowers and the news of some
homecoming in rings around the yard, in tables
upon my foot, in the leaping of advantage.

Mustard Glove

And turquoise earrings plied at the hip
in graceless effigy and fuss prove tenure of
our coupled ride along rails tugging at the
fist how I know better, how I misuse my
own remorse and grandeur in each July
trestled over the orchard past the singing


Under ground bark, colored fish and
many suns I peer through construct eyes
into a sanctuary of miniatures already
cupped and beautiful, hurled by my relief
into the beating heart of sure footing
and mingled accents wild.


What better way to kick your sister in the shins than say “You’re ugly, it’s your fault you have no breasts, and who winks at you?” It’s too hot this summer, it’s too lingering a tragedy we live at home, under the auspices of good faith and proper forwardness.. “Who’s the cocky one? Let her go, make fun of her ’til she cowers in silence at the mirror.” What studies her now postpones the malady, and with it she will see the science, the method, the coziness and outrage of the way behind her once she gets out. For to be willing to step out, to break the code of one’s own bricks, what holds one in corners, in glossy, unobtrusive and painstaking pastures–these are the knocks, the whit and width of my troubles and freedom.

The Old Quarter

In resilience and lot,
in the smell of daisies and
charcoal and large upon the ocean,
I dwelt there for a time and return
occasionally for the red peppers and beans,
shaken by heft and audition and a longing
to be forgotten dividing my appetite
so slowly and judiciously I was
unaware I ‘d been

Bundled Branches

Taut in wintertime, a cluster
frozen shut and laid alongside a
figured corpse of attention, my
bundle of reeds was broken early,
splintering into the vanity and
cheekbones of my mother and lodging
bare my vigorous fears,insistent
that what beat was but hooves of
little horses and hardly worth the
flattering of gold leaf.

c1999 Laura Siersema