Nanna’s accordion
is gathering dust
on a plywood floor
at the top of the stairs.
She got it in ’41,
back when she was just
a child, before the war.
Kids themselves, her heirs
can’t bear its squawking spirit,
its raw asthmatic
rasp, or its wheezing
sick-room breath.
They imagine they hear it,
even from the attic;
a sound once pleasing,
now too much like death.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Dawn of a New Pre-Christian West
Across the Western world, especially in France, Britain, and the United States, we are seeing a remarkable…
Canada’s Offensive Secularism
On March 25, the Canadian House of Commons voted to repeal the good faith religious opinion defense…
Against “God Alone”
A few years ago, I had some routine surgery. Something went wrong in recovery. The nurses on the…
