"The Berlin Wall" by Deborah Bacharach

The Berlin Wall

Why did I never visit the wall
in its natural habitat, while it
hunted detente,

knucklewalked across
the land? A massive silver back
of cement and barbed wire,

I could have taken in,
the full chested display
as it clung.

I could have. I black marketed
in Budapest, had a jaunt
to Moscow where I learned

secret police from the Deaf
on the streets, as in shhh,
they listen even to the silent.

So here is an arm of this wild behemoth
in a museum. Think of the hands
that painted the red

wolf, Act Up, on the Western side,
the hands that scrambled,
shot dead, against the East.

I remember Act Up, the boys in leather,
pink triangles
dying in. I went to a couple

of their dances. Their genial
hips touched mine. They all
died. So many years later,

in this hushed domesticated
enclosure, I hear
the wall grunt, roar, scream.

Deborah Bacharach

Deborah Bacharach is the author of After I Stop Lying (Cherry Grove Collections, 2015). She received a 2020 Pushcart honorable mention and has been published in journals such as Adroit, Poetry Ireland Review, Vallum, The Carolina Quarterly, and The Southampton Review, among many others. She is an editor, teacher, and tutor in Seattle. Find out more about her at DeborahBacharach.com.

Headshot: Timothy Aguero Photography

Photo Credit: Staff