Deborah Medenbach

Some Bread to Eat My Grief
Capetown, N. Africa, Nov. 2019

Strolling the Victorian Gardens in Capetown
She appeared
At the feet of Cecil Rhodes’ bronze statue.

Her equally-bronze skin peeked out from a purple sari
Her lowered eyes peeked only at the ground dust before her
“Some bread to eat my grief” she muttered as I passed.
Her voice, a thirsted growl.

I turned, hackles rising in a sudden sweated chill.
Our eyes met.
“Please, Memsahib! I don’t want money. Just some bread. I am starving.”
More slight than the veil that wrapped her, I looked.
Fluttering purple around bones.

I had no bread. My husband pulled me away.
No! My conscience bled.
Wrestling with him a hundred yards,
He let go. We sat on the roots of an ancient baobab tree.

A man approached, somehow skinnier than the woman
in months-worn garments
Belted against a caving stomach
“Please. Just some bread…” he whispered.

I pulled off my purple backpack, reaching deep to the bottom.
Nature Valley Honey & Oats and random Clif bars
I gave them all to him

He was puzzled.

“It’s food. Really. Take one to her too. She’s hungry,” I said, gesturing to
the haunted woman
A few paces back
Hiding behind the unmoved metal of the British Imperialist

He nodded, running away with the treasure
like a lion
dragging the best shank
Of an antelope.


Nuclear Phoenix

The shards sprayed out from the blast inside
sharp angry truths, glittering mercilessly as each condemnation drew blood
incising dreams, popped balloons that flutter to the ground,
the holy ground,
where nothing can fall further, unless dead and buried

The disaster left a mire of disappointment, disillusionment, disrespect
All had been dissed, truly,
but the well-worn boots, with my feet in them, stood firm
on that holy ground
where nothing can fall further, unless dead and buried

Those who are six feet under, push back against my soles
Firm on the ground, at the surface.
Do something. You still can

Kicking at the foundation of the world, where rational ice and mud show no clear way
my feet scuff down a level
There is only murk, and surely no warmth
But a dreaming bulb, nascent in its self containment
waits patiently for this nuclear blast to subside

The gray sky breaks, storming down a tickle of rain,
softening what is hard,
cradling what is vulnerable
and blessing, with sunrise warmth
A new dream
in the holy ground
where nothing can fall further, and can only rise to the light.


Poet's Cafe

The dirty table
at the poet's cafe
has crumbs of the past
washed over by spilled water.
The trickles bulge toward
the receptive floor.

The waitress looks inconvenienced
chasing the past with
impotent scented waters
on an overused rag
as though that could undo
what has been done.

Nothing is solved in trying,
other than making guests more comfortable
in the present.

After all,
the crumbs are still there,
on the floor,
sticking to your shoe.


Eye Phone

That phone
is going to fall out
of her back pocket.
Dangling,
as though its camera eye
will track its fall.
The contacts,
the pictures,
the emails,
tumble anonymously,
their plastic protector,
shielding a life
from concrete.


About the Author

Deborah Medenbach is a Hudson Valley writer whose work has been published in the American Poetry Anthology, The Home Planet News, Ulster Magazine, The Times-Herald Record and other publications over the last 20 years. She and her husband live on a farm in Kerhonkson. Their companions are a flock of elderly chickens and a diffident cat, who hides her mouse victories under the rug. Deb can be reached at dmedenbach@gmail.com.

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