Ms. Murawski is the author of Zorba’s
Daughter, which received the May Swenson Poetry Award, Moon and Mercury, and two chapbooks. Her poems have appeared in The Yale Review,
FIELD, The Alaska Quarterly Review, The Hudson Review, et al. A native of
Chicago, she currently resides in Alexandria, VA.
The title poem from Zorba's Daughter was reprinted here. To read it, just click here.
The Enemy
Pogo warned, brave as an
astronaut, the enemy’s
us. Promptly, we forgot the
enemy.
Swayed by the Sousa band, Daddy
lied about
his age, proudly fought the
enemy.
The abused dissociate, fly high
above
the pervert’s touch. Unsought,
the enemy.
The little girl feared her body.
An occasion
of sin, she was taught. The
enemy.
Without David’s star, there’s no
way of knowing
who’s the enemy, thought the
enemy.
Survivors of wars often die in
cars that swerve,
on narrow stairs. Like dry-rot,
the enemy.
Today’s feudal lords pull their
dark strings
in boardrooms. Gordian, their
knot: the enemy.
Booth took a bullet in the neck,
no summer
patriot, having shot the enemy.
Happy they who carpet bomb and
barrel bomb
to bring to nought the enemy.
They hung Matt Shepard on a
barbed wire fence,
draped like an afterthought: the
enemy.
The poet dived deeply into the
swamp,
in terza rima wrought the enemy.
Train joyride: flying yellow
rape fields;
wolves. The wolves are not the
enemy.
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