Ottilie Mulzet
The sideboard in the kitchen
held plates, the shelves carefully
arranged with wax paper neatly
trimmed and the cup from the
Jüdische Turistenverband Hikers’
Association just like the inscriptions
on the cliffs like long black
scars some too high to
reach, must have been put
there by the angels who
wrote the Book of Laws that
everyone knew by heart, memorizing
two verses every day, always beginning
with the words “It is written.”

Ottilie Mulzet
I don’t want anything to eat.
I just count the days ahead.
I am infused with your death.
It is blossoming inside of me.
You had everything arranged.
The poison slipped into your veins.
You lay down finally to rest.
The sweet blackness rushing all around.
Everything was planned.
Your sweet death blossoms inside of me.
There was no blood, you left no mess.
Only the pillow was slightly crumpled.
We are all infused with your death now.
It is blossoming out of our eyes.
The skeleton stood there in my dream.
Telling me someone was going to die.