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In the Anthropology Museum by MARIAM NEIGER



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MARIAM NEIGER
In the Anthropology Museum			
Proper objects are standing here, at a distance from their destination. A collection blended together in a mythic dough ready for digestion. Horrible ritual are pressed through the sleeves of the construction into a compact, subtle, prophetic capsule of memory. Curves of the legendary feathered snake cause confusion around containers no longer in context, proofs in the sentences of culture. Tense beauty radiates from the rulers of the Kingdom of Entropy. Hearts torn out are still quivering in stone basins, offerings for the gods who keep the sunrise bloody. Jade mosaic on a skull. The recycled dead are revealed in the dust, serving in a latterday cult. Its worshippers are retired American women admiring with such precise tone: oh, how nice! Guided tour, a few more steps forwards, drawn by a promised charm in the epic of Montezuma's daughter, who became curator. And in each additional ride following the production of a ruined temple another unit of time is beyond. And History..... And what is coming close ahead of us becomes clear like the light flickering among the clouds on a day which promises nothing in the way of good news. Translated by Anthony Rudolf and the author

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How Can You Expect Me Not to Write about Death? by LYN LIFSHIN



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LYN LIFSHIN
How Can You Expect Me Not to Write about Death?			
Is there any other subject splashed these last weeks thickly across TV? Last night I woke up wondering how I could stand not having my cat curl into my skin, a fur doll, a breathing pillow. How can I not think of the bloated girl on the feeding tube, legs splayed, mouth connected to world by a tube for medicine and food. Why wouldn't death seep into every dream? who isn't thinking of their wills, the funerals they will or won't have? With the Pope's body lying in state how can I not think of my mother's last hours, the purple velvet they carried her off in. It's Aril 4, I want to think of the wild plum my, my favorite trees unfolding slowly, late like a difficult birth

Copyright 2006, LYN LIFSHIN, all rights retained

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How to Jump from a Moving Train by MARIAM NEIGER



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MARIAM NEIGER
How to Jump from a Moving Train			
Backwards. If you jump forward, you'll be sucked down under the wheels. You must jump backwards blindly, rolled into a ball, chin upon chest, hands cradling the back of your neck. Beforehand, observe the terrain where you'll be thrust as in a centrifuge away from the speeding locomotive. On a soft meadow, you just might get up; on sharp hard gravel, bones will break. I’m doomed to carry these instructions in the fragile planet of my skull. Sometimes, after meeting someone new, I suddenly think, “A good person to know: she could hide me; no one would suspect.” Why did I shudder when a Buddhist acquaintance proclaimed, “There is no doubt: in your last past life, you died at Auschwitz.” I was speechless. Only now I know it’s enough to be a child of survivors, to whose cunning luck I owe my life – and an old movie bleeding through, of blindly jumping backwards, away from the transport – crawling on the gravel; a life before I as born, always running in the dim smoky cinema far away in my mind.

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