by Meredith Escudier
Like a chip off the old block,
a splinter from its mother ship,
a shred of exploded concrete
found on the ground.
Stilled in grey dullness,
compact in craggy roughness,
just one of many to crash down
and resound.
Checkpoint Charlie was your gate.
You watched and lay in wait
while desperate souls sought escape
in suitcases, car trunks, hot air balloons…
Some got caught.
But on a festive night in ’89
you cracked up and went flying,
exploding in shards, miscellaneous missiles
shooting off crazy in the cold night air.
Brigit, my Berliner friend,
was there. So was the world,
beholding the unfolding.
So she brought you to me
as a grey chunk of memory,
a nothing, a lackluster thing on my shelf.
Yet 20 years on, the power’s still there
and I startle at this souvenir,
the bitter now dear.
Meredith Escudier’s non-fiction work has appeared in various literary magazines, anthologies, the International Herald Tribune "Meanwhile" column and as an ongoing column in a monthly based in the south of France. She has just started submitting poetry, which is a genre that suits her more and more.
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