Otto Laske
Poetry Sample
Grace of chandeliers,
curved mirrors, painted
furniture at Wolfinger's;
eight o'clock. Pentecost.
Across my window, the green onion
sits on an ochre shaft
of the tower at Hauptplatz,
with a penetrating golden tip.
Slow at first, the movement consoles me
for long absences with fingers bent into myself,
as if Maria from the nearby Schlosskirche
had taken pity on me.
Tu Austria nube.
As the light fades, a narrow black flag
bulges against the sky in a gesture
of horror, soothed only by the sobbing pink
of my window sill geraniums.
The tower beats nine.
Over distant hills, beyond the Danube,
an unknown hand rises,
stretching a silky moon
over the gently won landscape
of my hips, to resurrect me
as a woman in my sleep.