Springtime in Prague

The season of white asparagus 

and sidewalk cafes, of open doorways

spilling Janácek.  Dark church spires

like furled umbrellas prick a milk sky.

In the Jewish Museum, children’s drawings 

from Terezin: Barbed wire for a rose’s 

thorny stem. A slot of blue 

mountain viewed through a keyhole.

We emerge into broken sunlight

and clean streets—a century of grime 

pressure-washed from the stone façades,

trash discretely stowed. 

The rain, it seems, has stopped. We eat

sausages and rye bread at a kiosk,

watch runoff flow across the cobbles

to disappear down drains fully plumbed

and functional, unlike the fake faucets 

created to fool Red Cross inspectors 

who never bothered to turn the tap. People

are laughing. They drink beer in a wooden boat

placed in the dirt outside a bar. The day 

ripples with pleasure. Our sauerkraut is creamy, 

acidic, flecked with caraway. When we chew

it is the silence we taste. 

Published in The Shore, Issue 23 (2024)