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The Murderer, the Murdered, and Me

ISSUE:  Spring 2003

Edward Bartók-Baratta


Now is always the season,

a man raising his shoe, a shovel,

a woman turning her head, lifting her hands, running from a
   room, or asleep.
The future doesn’t care.

They were there, she no longer is.

Something implacable struck her, larger than his hands. History,
a shift between continents.

Arriving with a large boot print across the body of the envelope,
from his cell and my studio, these awkward, boyish letters.

A staple through each page he sends, as if they could incarcerate
    his words.

And what permanent weather, you know, for the woman in her

Running all my corridors, headed toward my door,
a torn blouse.

Biting the air, chasing, a man who would be my friend, his shovel

Surely the door is bolted,
the men with the cage soon to reach my friend.


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