Issue #10

Exercise in Berlin, 2012

She feels as if she were made of tracing paper.

They march; stop when a part of wall

remains, blocking the illusion.

They are blind to each other, blind to

the philosophy that they cannot conquer all.

(Seeking asylum

piles of debris

don't have a place

Lonely streets)

In the museum they come to a room.

A temple of faces, ten thousand

screams, clanking, he is on top of them.

Looking at her, she is the sea, and the hexagrams in the sky

Displaced souls under callous shoes.


Turn valve

to opt out)

She needs leeway from what was

Art is a signifier of continuity, of grit

He asks. Do you believe exulting your perpetual present

equalises to the sufferings of a whole nation?

She thinks no

that's not what I meant

at all

that's not what I meant

In a fifteen-storey nightclub

They stand in cages. She

plugs her ears to stop the throbbing.

On the terrace, looking down

she can see their shadows

chasing through a solution of concrete shards

unduly tipping scales, but it’s still here.

(I am here.

I am here.)

Samantha Fielding

© 2014