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Jehanne Dubrow
THE COLD WAR, A ROMANCE
Sometimes we were illegal dollar bills.
We were the three-hour line for bread,
the last pair of pantyhose in the shop,
the hard potato. Or else, we were the town
of industry where all machines had stopped,
the stalled assembly line, the pneumatic drills.
We were the wiretap, the rumor spread
from room to room. We were the State crackdown.
And yes, we were the act of making do—
a soup of water, salt, a chicken bone.
We were the vodka swigged against the chill,
and the sad folk song that every soldier knew,
and the ribbon in the yellow hair, and the stone
that marked the fallen bodies on the hill.
–from Rattle #32, Winter 2009
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