By Annemarie Alms
Despite dating back to the thirteenth century, Berlin is such a mysteriously modern place. It was destroyed by bombs. And so, in the city, you feel the weight of these ghosts. Their blood suspended in the air: an anti-war cry. An anthem. A glimmer of hope.
3 a.m. Cobblestone soaking moonlight beneath a closed window. Little nuns rush to bolt her door. So—she’d rinse with Vinegar. Between mouthfuls: “Calm yourself. All’s well in limelight, in the corner of this room.” With her thighs ballooning out on the wooden floor. Legs, her legs, like perfect halves of a coffee bean. Blue eyes and Lips like stapled sheets. —She imagines— Melting sunlight on cold grass. Morning doves Gazing down, Away, a world Away. Separating her from their feathers. Empty, now, she breathes. Spreads her hand across an Ugly blanket. an Uneven, Corkscrewed thing. layered among the Ash, Dust, and Rubble. “Make your bed,” she whispers. But Imagines—She imagines—can only imagine: Cloudless sky. and Cursive wind spiraling through her feathers.
Annemarie Alms is a class of 2020 Girls Write Now mentee based in New York, NY.