BRANDON KILBOURNE | FRAU KAHNT Again her voice aged soft tries out my ears, hopeful for a breakthrough while I open a can too much for her arthritis; neighborly, her syllables don’t shy away from my scant vocabulary, as she copes with loss leaving her marooned in her ninety-two years. Hearing me out in the hallway, she tethers greetings to old books, fresh strawberries, and birthday cake, only to watch sound German words founder as emptied sounds butting an English impasse – Supplanting language, a rust-shut penknife speaks fluent goodwill, leaving her hands. * I listen to your plangent eyes, your voice blind in my feckless ears – Witness imprisoned in your tongue withers to sparsely strung atoms: U-Boot. Bomben. Dresden. Mutter. Mein Mann ist tot seit acht Jahren. Trembling eyes crave life for the dead in graves sealed by my poor German. * Undeterred, she ventures outside zeitgeists standstill in furniture, photos’ inhabitants, knick-knacks gilded with memories, her steps retreading the path to my door: with a doorbell’s press, her finger translates beyond all words spoken the loneness shawling her shoulders. Santa Fe Literary Review
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