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Posted on January 7, 2011 at 3:53 AM

You oughtn’t to use bad language, Anny

Says, appearing out of nowhere, a small


Bow tied in her long blonde hair, Momie said

It wasn’t good. You say, I never use bad


Language when I write poems about you.

She comes closer to the PC and stares


At the screen. Is this poem about me?

Most of it, you say, gazing at her small


Ghostly hand on the arm of the swivel

Chair. Her finger moves along the PC


Screen, tracking the line of words. I used to

Write with a pen, Anny says, in my neat


Handwriting, Momie’d say. She wipes dust from

The monitor’s top, then wipes her hand on


Her black phantom dress. She has beautiful

Blue eyes, but you don’t tell her, you just gaze


As she touches your mouse pad and then the

White mouse and then picks up the Biro as


Children do and scribbles away. The air

Smells of flowers; then she’s gone. The neatly


Penned words in French say, Anny Horowitz,

Murdered in Auschwitz, 1942.


The room is empty of her presence now,

Just your PC, your sleeping son and you.



Categories: Poetry & Lyric, Terry Collett

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