Brecht, singing in the dark times
while our greater Mahagonny floods and burns,
you made Blitzstein a better muse
than me, tired
of invisible walls and strings pulled in plain sight
and expecting no mounted messengers,
even ironic ones.
Let me talk to Hauptmann
who knew the differences
between owning a play and robbing one,
between the meaning and the moral.
A poet forgets, from his eyrie of clippings and sketches,
that a girl who lives with a typewriter
sees him on the side.
Bess, translating America
back into itself through the shadows of new Germany,
you wrote a Hollywood finish for a government of gangsters,
an earthquake for an audience
alienated long before the beggars took the stage.
If happyendlich is never ever after,
let there be ballads to sing on the road to Berlin.


Sonya Taaffe

Sonya Taaffe reads dead languages and tells living stories. Her short fiction and poetry have been collected most recently in As the Tide Came Flowing in (Nekyia Press) and previously in Singing Innocence and Experience, Postcards from the Province of Hyphens, A Mayse-Bikhl, Ghost Signs, and the Lambda-nominated Forget the Sleepless Shores. She lives with one of her husbands and both of her cats in Somerville, Massachusetts, where she writes about film for Patreon and remains proud of naming a Kuiper belt object.

Photo Credit: Rob Noyes

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