Winter 2011

Table of Contents - Vol. VII, No. 4


Poetry    Fiction    Translations    Reviews   

Mark J. Mitchell



Entre Deux Guerre

How did they spend their evenings—
Louis and Elsa? Did they sit
Back to stiff back, punishing typewriters,
Producing books like children?

Or did they walk out in Paris,
Sit up late in cafes, sipping wine
As blood red as their passionate politics
Waited on by Ho chi Minh?

Maybe Louis spent every night
Bowing before Elsa, covering her
From head to toe with dialectical kisses
In precise metrical patterns.

Maybe she talked to friends on her
Fur-lined telephone, while he played
Dominoes with the dog. Maybe the Magrittes
Forgot to come over for bridge.

I suspect that he cooked and she
Paid the bills while a long lost comedian
Made silly sounds on the radio,
Moving manifestos to set their table.


© Mark J. Mitchell


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