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Justice (Prague Revisited)
She sat next
to me on a night train headed for
Prague in the summer of 1968—
a scarf
covered her eyes, scales rested
by her feet,
an apparition
made real only by her touch.
She asked why
the train was stopping in the middle
of a field
blanketed by darkness. Her question
was answered by the shout of boots
scurrying down the aisle wresting weary
passengers out of a stolen slumber.
A face emerged
from the shadows, framed by a
wool hat, earflaps down,
piercing eyes,
thin drawn lip, teeth the
color of dried wheat,
painted black
mustache, brow dripping
with sweat.
A hand,
cracked and calloused pushed its way
in front of her, “Papers.”
She told him
that she was a citizen of the world, not tied by
people or province,
not beholden
by claims or documents. She handed him
her tattered scarf,
torn and
frayed by time and toil at the edges. He laughed
when she told him
that her history was folded
into its creases, sewn and
defined by the seams.
Access was
denied. Prisoners were removed. The train
lurched into reverse,
heading
backwards on a rail out of tune. I got up to
peer out the window,
acrid air
filled the compartment, fire and smoke
consumed the horizon.
I lost track
of her face, her shadow
faded into the empty seat, her scarf
vanished in a column of vapor—tanks replaced
trees, shopkeepers became soldiers. The Prague
spring turned into winter. The Castle
slept—
a violated maiden forced to wait
decades for that fateful kiss.
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