Broken Street

Punctured doll heads.
Black baby dolls. And white ones. The limbs
of angels in old tires. Mounds of shoes.
Belts deflated plastic
snakes, handbags heaped on a curb.
Gloves wave from vacuum cleaners.
Our lives some giant thriftshop, useless.
A gilt cross dangles, winks and leers
from plastic Mardi Gras beads. Jesus
is nowhere to be found.
Or Buddha. The Messiah
promised by Hassids. There are only
outlived forms. A tree of clocks.

God of mercy, why did you put
this one small amputated foot
in a rusted refrigerator?
Who wore the silver brocade
party dress? Owned the stuffed bunny?
I'll ask who I can.
I want to knock
on your door,
Tyree Guyton, say this street
in Detroit could be anywhere,
split by symbols and lies.
Dead children's eyes.
No turning back.
We're meant to live here.

[Sharon Olinka/poem] [Mollyne Karnofsky (M.K.)/drawing]

The Good City
Poems on the destruction of Smyrna
in Longshot
A4L Gallery
Artists Space
in Algiers (across the river from New Orleans)

© copyright Thin Ice Press 1997-2007
© copyright Sharon Olinka 1997-2007
© copyright Mollyne Karnofsky 1997-2007