TWO POEMS

Eva Braun, in Wheel Pose

At the beach, she mimics an American
pin-up: pale legs stretched to the left; blond hair

dormant even in the wind. Jumpy, fragmented
footage: in a dirndl, she picks purple Bachelor

Buttons, pouts at the camera. When Adolf is gone,
she eats with a picture of him by her side.

The perfect wartime Fräulein. She marries him
at midnight in a black silk dress, beneath

the shelling of Berlin. They sleep divided
by concrete. The next day she skips lunch, saves

her last bite for the thin vial of cyanide, faint
taste of bitter almonds. Several faded shots of Eva

near the water’s edge show her playfully thrusting
in and out of wheel pose. Her back bends, hoists

her bare stomach up, makes a bridge from
one side of her body to the other. Her hair dampens

in the waves, as she dangles upside-down, delicately
balanced on the tips of her toes. She laughs, loves

life from this angle, knows what it means to be alive
as her ears pound and blood rushes to her head.

She is an inversion— the lake’s mirror that longs
to swallow the sky. She is the wheel inside a camera,

clawing film, eating negative space. Her image spit
back each night: a flickering frame. She marvels

at her body’s arch. How if she opens her ribcage
enough, she might capture something essential.

Sonogram Storytelling
Currently, 25 states regulate that a woman undergo an ultrasound before having an abortion. In some cases, the doctor performing the ultrasound must narrate the procedure, following a script which the AMA has found to contain false and misleading information.

Here is the baby that will never know
it won’t be. This is so that you’re more
informed: four healthy chambers;

enforced child support. Because you are
the woman whose body won’t hold on
to what is not yours: an idea, a still life

of motherhood that’ll bleed the canvas
dry. This is a static watercolor, snapshot
for no fridge. Looking isn’t law, but

now’s the time to listen. Some women
prefer to plug their ears, hum above
heart tones. Today you will terminate

the life of a whole, separate, unique
living human being. We’re nearly
through. Focus on the gel’s apathetic

squirt onto skin, the rustle of paper
against flesh, the insipid hit the nurse
turned up to drown me out. Nothing

to apologize for, and yet we politely beg
each other for forgiveness. Your tears,
my script. Helpless while the pulse wails

through the monitor. No matter our
state, something between us. Masked
actors relegated to the chorus of our own

drama. No moral to this story, just
another song of compliance: Abortion
increases the risk of breast cancer

and suicide. Best to let thoughts
wander. Not this cramped office,
but the beach. My voice a far sea,

only sting from saltwater. Warm
sand instead of stirrups. Not this
transducer, but a bright conch pressed

to the shell of your face. Its echo so like
the ocean you can’t help but believe
what you hear. Though, it’s a trick.

That thrum isn’t the sound of breaking
waves coming to the end of their
short run. This is the sound of you living.

__

Danielle DeTiberus teaches Creative Writing at the Charleston School of the Arts. Her work has appeared in Best American Poetry 2015, Arts & Letters, Rattle, The Southeast Review, Spoon River Poetry Review and elsewhere. She currently serves as the Program Chair for the Poetry Society of South Carolina. Read more about her work at danielledetiberus.com.