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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 8, Number 3, September 2014


Ingrid Kunschke
Minden, North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany


not until
darkness sets in
does it show
its true beauty
the damassin

She stands dead still, her face blank, her left arm holding that helmet aloft, her right hand barely touching its cords. The whiteness of her face is impeccable, graceful the slim curve of her neck, her head’s posture endearing. Dressed in red damassin she remains frozen as long as the sun has not set on her sleeves. Wait and darkness will envelop her. Light a candle and—is that a whiff of incense?—her face will blush with determination as she raises the helmet a little higher.

She is not a doll now, she is a woman and in love. And her face, she finds it reflected on frozen Lake Suwa at her feet, where a fox looks back at her as she lifts her sacred burden and runs, flies.

she moved
didn’t she, she moved
ever so slightly—
or was it her eyes
drinking in darkness



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