This poem is taken from Stand 219, 16(3) August - September 2018.

Richard Aronowitz Three Poems
In the Taxidermist’s Shop

Every animal, so I’m told, has enough brains to tan its own hide

                                                                             ‒ Clare Dunn

Pale ghost, you are a palimpsest of yourself,
an Arctic fox doomed to two-dimensionality by death
and the carelessness of the taxidermist’s work.

The domed glass reflects back the moon of my face
looking at you looking at me. Mere trickery
of the light or something more sinister

in this sinister clustering of death? These endless
birds in their vitrines are in unrequited love
with air and flight, tethered by glue and hopelessness

to an eternity of standing or perching when they 
could fly out of this mouldering shop
on Nevsky Prospekt, if only death (or is it life?)

would allow, and away over the Neva River.
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