She loves him. She loops
barbed wire in the shape
of a man larger than he is
for him to inhabit. Finer
wires shape careful patterns
within the frame she has
created for his protection.
They’re beautiful. They’re
sharp.
He once told me,
holding my hand,
that some Lithuanians
had so hated the Soviets
that they embraced the Nazis,
that his family had struggled
to understand the letters
from relatives still there
during the liberation.
Now he counts on his fingers
within the bristled halo
that surrounds his hand.
He arrives at no solution.
You’re right to be angry,
he tells me, his last word
on the subject, his head
turned slightly away
as he follows the occupying
force in her kitten-heeled
boot.
Originallly published in Diner, 7 (2007): 113.
Jill Anderson is a poet and historian who lives in Georgia. Her work has appeared in Pebble Lake Review, Red Weather, and Diner; her day job has caused her poetry writing to lapse a bit and she is working to get back into the habit of writing.