Wasteland 

By: Mandy McKee 

They used to say "If you see the widow on the road, -
then kill the widow. Kill the widow." 
But there is no widow here. 
Only a white-wash of snow, endless 

as it creeps onto the streets, curling 
to miss a snake of steam 
hissing from beneath the manhole. 
I wonder if there is a road down there, 

slow and sulking beneath the hide of 
these sullen tears. And if a widow, 
in her gray tatters and ruthless flesh 
might extend forward a meager bribe 

dull with a cobalt gleam 
at first 
then a silvery candescence 
hot enough to cook the crooked-

mouth fish gasping in her left hand 
the dusky scales shivering, 
another gasp, long, deep. 
A suck of air. 

Just walk past, walk past. 
Shut your eyes against the 
promise of transience. 
This road won't last forever. 

They say that here, here, this 
is the land of promise. 
But there is no widow here. 
All the bony hands are plump 

and their bribes 
are a shovel for the grave. 
I am too 
dazzled by the web of color 

that spiders across the curve of snow 
an ephemeral touch 

The 2011 Analecta Page 95 



of transcendence 
And all these wafting tears, chilled 

offer only the slightest reconciliation. 
The street signs, a blare of green against 
the orange cone of falling snow 
point to no road. 

A canopy of shops with gaudy 
neon signs shiver in the waking 
cold. A sliver of snow 
falls down the neck 

of a little girl's coat. 
She dances with it 
and goes inside to buy 
a small, silvery carp 

That will die the very next day. 

The 2011 Analecta Page 96 

Dear Mother, you ma 
that may trouble yom 
Though it may seem J 

the time from the fro 
Her name is Denise, J 

The few hours I spen1 

The French have beer 
I despise this despical 
Sweet mother, lift up 
do not fear my lonelii 
life will once again bt 
Do not let this war m 

The trenches are at b< 
and my men have nol 
We liberated some st< 
This allowed me, for ; 
I know you feel a sen: 
on the farm but lift U] 

My dear friend Max I 
We have been throug 
decisions of our dem; 
in this war. I feel that 
Why must men to go 
over this land that is : 

Mother. I must confe: 
The papers back horn 
be broken by the ene1 
I pray that my boys n 
battles of endless day 
of loneliness 

A new sour sense of s 
has fallen upon me. I 
My sweet friend Max 
his life had a new spi1 
His life is no longer c 
No more for him is tl 

The battle of loneline 
My beautiful mother, 
senseless and endless