by Karina van Berkum
Like Tongue, the word
Prague is spelled
for its swollen center
and placement,
which snakes before
it stalls.
This winter I hid inside
both for a while
while the leadfaced
neighbors worked fast
on their own
obsessions. Alone,
I learned to be in love
with neither town
nor appendage
whose shining, wasted
forms ache against
one another:
Prague from Tongue
in a moment of silent
lunacy, say,
and Tongue sitting wet
in a gray station,
dying to go.
Once again I find on Camel Saloon a very good poet whose work I'm not familiar with--but the name Karina van Berkum has a sound as interesting as Prague and Tongue. I don't think I'll forget it when I encounter the name again.
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