By: Christa Lubatkin
A Sabbath Stopping
on this day
we do not recognize
the broken parts
the disquieting future
lurking in bones
flesh and frontal lobe
on sabbath we dance
man and wife
in the arms of memories
as if diagnosis had not
been pushed across the desk
death not mentioned
Death is not the end of the story
long gone are those
who came before me
but for their presence
in my gangly bones
wispy hair lips drawn tight
easy teasing smile
I am the stern banker
who died too soon
in war’s trenches
my obsession
with facts and numbers
is his unseen gift tucked
into my swaddling blanket
I am the baker
who carried
my grandmother’s baskets
the smell of yeast
from rising dough
under a tea towel
hands and face
lightly flour-dusted
lifts my mood
I am Justine
who in 1879 rose
from digging in potato
fields and signed
her name with German Xs
an unlikely beginning
of my deftness with a pen
I am my children
who’s traits are packed
under their skin
from kin buried
across the sea
swagger of misdeeds
heroic survival
and a country brought
to it’s knees
are firmly woven
into familial tapestry
Their lives lie hidden
I came upon her
the orange-pride majorette
her young face
earnest with a need
to please, earnest
with worries
of home where the fist
rules and drink
swallows reason
youthful blush
hides the lone hours
the cold house
fridge on empty
I came upon the orange
pride of belonging
ever so briefly
to a cause
for cheering
Christa was born in war, raised through post-war poverty and finally landed in the country of everyone’s dreams, where she moved and moved again. For someone who never lingers long, writing short poetry is a natural fit.
As one of her fellow poets once said, Christa’s work shines a light on darkness. Her poetry has appeared in The Patterson Literary Review, Haunted Waters Press (Splash), The Blue Guitar and Goodreads, Desert Voices, The Write Launch. Away from her writing table she likes to hike, dance, and enjoy the company of good people.
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