Two Poems


Even our nerves are bored, 

stalled at small towns in Georgia, 
ambitious with historical markers. 
Here, read this placard, 

fill up your car.
Remember the blood, 
forget the Bloods. 

Your devil-tooth hangs from your lip, 
drooling Sutter Home. 
Your sopping heart beats slow.

The speedometer begins to glow, 
barely red. The hours seem 
loose-boned, the sun sets. 

Our cringing bodies are rotting fruit 
in the new dark. 
This is the plague hour, 

we are not long for this world.


Caught in panicked motion, to us,
the bus bull-like, bucking into a dark 
we have not known.

Your small, terrible teeth
could have been Soviet, 
but we are both foreigners.

I know your mother in Georgia
with her slight, bitter God.
You have failed them both. 

I know half the bodies 
of half the women.
I know you are afraid.

What I admitted, 
I will not admit now (nor could).
Getting drunker at each stop,

the metro becoming increasingly abstract, 
the tracks singing, our bodies ringing, 
even the smallest parts of us 

can be felt coming undone.

​ALISHA DIETZMAN was born in South Carolina, and raised in Prague, Czech Republic. She is an MFA candidate at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
The Adirondack Review