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Post Road Magazine #34


Atar Hadari

Nothing survives of us but lands.
The place where you first laid your head,
your grandfather’s green leather armchair,
a radio he listened to, plug-less,
the dust on the wedding pictures
where several of the wives
now have different last names –
the neighbours have moved
underground or out
to the new suburbs, a child in the yard
is not you now – not even your grandchild:
only the empty flat and empty head
of the widow who wanders,
the bars he leaned across
out of the balcony to say, You gettin’ much?
in Czech, to the neighbour who wasn’t and didn’t
respond, just a cool summer flat
where you remember what nobody else now calls
to mind and a collection of photographs
dusted by a woman no-one knows
in the untouched frames,
who now only remembers a house
no longer still standing, left somewhere else.

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