I wandered across three times. From its arched center, red roofs below sprinkled by a giant. Birds circled a gray sky, though there were no tourists tossing bread into the Vltava. I pulled my coat against the March air. Before an architect put pen to paper, set a ruler, he wanted to solder a city. Lining the bridge, blackened statues I had not noticed before–saints and martyrs–from their stone railings, whispers–how they step down to dance at night while the city sleeps. How we will weave our lives together, one of us earth, the other sky. You will teach me to walk shoeless. I will sit beside you, tell you lost tales.
Kathleen Goldblatt (she/her/hers) is the author of Our Ghosts Wait Patiently (Finishing Line Press.) Her poems have appeared in The Comstock Review, Amethyst, The Healing Muse, Psychological Perspectives and The San Antonio Review. She reflects on poetry during walks with her dog, Archie, who never tires of listening. Kathleen loves the sea and is lucky to live in Rhode Island, the Ocean State. She is a mental illness advocate and a Jungian psychoanalyst.
