Abroad

The things we went looking for go unfound.
Instead, patterns surface in this
unfamiliar where we are careless
enough to lick our lips and discover,
like everywhere, here each small thing
taste soapy, looks dingy, like a coffee mug
stained and washed over years of
mornings, sipped and smudged, wearing
away the shiny finish, tired hand
disappearing over tired hand.












Duo
for Beth

Very small in our matching
skin, we would slink
room to room in the creaks
of our mother's ancient
house, where everything
tasted like hunger, pretending
not to have any bones.












Untitled:

what we keep
finding—a kind of vague
repetition we need to hold
tightly for comfort when
the air, foreign, becomes
more than our lungs can take
in—a rehearsal for another
series, another sequence,
of long deep breaths.












Monica Berlin lives in Galesburg, Illinois with the letters J and E. She works there too, at Knox College, where she professes to having the best job in the world. Recently, her poems have appeared in The Missouri Review, Flyway, and The Artful Dodge. On her way to becoming a perpetual finalist, she received Pushcart nominations in 2003 and 2004, and an Illinois Arts Council Grant in 2005. She believes in pockets and horses, though she is afraid of both.






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