Poem by Zachàr Laskewicz

Soaked lush

In a dry martini

The pickle talks

And talks

Of pain

And the end

Of suffering

And an escape . . .

But this pickle

Will never talk loud enough

To dull the pain

Of a beauty lost

Where youthful radiance

Is reborn with every new bottle

Into a piercing memory

Of what she hasn't done

Or didn't do . . .

Poor pickle -

Without a stiff drink,

The bitter taste

Of a childhood grown vague

Will be resipped

Again and again

Into a painful present

Where the pickle is little more

Than a wrinkled old cucumber

And her vision of herself

Will not betray the ugly truth.

31 January 2003 (Sint-Niklaas)

Last updated 10 January 2008 (Ghent)

© May 2008 Nachtschimmen Music-Theatre-Language Nightshades, Ghent (Belgium)
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Last modified: 16 May 2013

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