ANTICHRIS_

By Ala Fink

A redheaded child wakes
from a lingering dream,
still clutching the string
attached to an orange balloon.

Wearing a white sweater and a gruff voice,
he confesses—
“It’ll never happen again,
baby, I promise.”
She clenches her eyes,
presses a kiss on his violet lips.

Spared by the daily stampede, the paper
proclaims, “Six Bodies in Four Hours,
Juárez, Mexico.” The entering
and exiting slam into one another,
“Local Testifies This is Normal,”
like morning blindness.

At Port Authority a fluctuating crowd
gathers around a violinist,
Brahms’ Lullaby ripples
and rises, a fleeting relief
for hurried faces.