When you rose from the sea
the crown of your head
touched the clouds
the moon bowed low
to worship your feet
—stars sang harmonies
while the ocean blushed
Born in Germany at the end of World War II, Eva-Maria Sher started writing poetry almost as soon as she could spell. After emigrating to the United States at seventeen, studying literature and expressive arts, teaching, marrying and raising a family, she picked up where she left off forty years earlier, writing about everyday life in her adopted country, her memories, her garden, her animals, about being a woman. She loves gardening and painting and lives in the Seattle area with her husband Ron and their Leonberger puppy Minette.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.