A poem by J.E.A. Wallace.

Kept awake by the prospect of mosquitoes
And of what St Peter will say
If I make it up to Heaven
Til I finally drift away

‘We are trapped in a Czechoslovakian winter’
Says the girl with the patched-up guitar
Strange things prowl
In the white snow’s growl
And sleep deep in the abandoned cars
Our hard-won little fire is a blurred reflection
Of her red lips, black eyes and yellow hair
The windows rattle
Like we’re caught in a battle
Between fate and this girl’s stare
‘I cannot survive a Czechoslovakian winter’
My voice is so small I don’t know me
She turns and smiles
Like the world’s on trial
For breaking her guitar in Klatovy

I awake ‘neath the teeth of mosquitoes
And a bruised sky with nothing to say
Of the currency value of penitence
On this particular day

J.E.A. Wallace has been a hotel night porter, an abattoir security guard, and a barman in The House of Lords. Born and raised in England, he now lives and writes in New York City. His debut full-length poetry collection “Are You Hurtling Towards God Knows What?” is available now from Unsolicited Press.

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