New Year’s Eve, 1921<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I was combing my sister’s fragrant hair, Out of bed,<\/em> she said, and on your knees.<\/em> Emily and I crawled under the covers, Through the sludge of hours, I waited, knowing through the ceiling and the roof, to soar In terror that God might come, in fear Then a celebration, without horns <\/p>\n “”New Years Eve, 1921” is reprinted from Poets West Literary Journal.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Roberta Feins<\/a> was born in New York, and has also lived in North Carolina and (currently) in Seattle. She works as a computer consultant. Roberta received her MFA in poetry from New England College in 2007. She has been published in The Cortland Review,\u00a0<\/a>Pif Magazine,<\/a>\u00a0Antioch Review, Tea Party, Floating Bridge Review, The Lyric<\/em>, and\u00a0Five AM.<\/em>\u00a0Roberta is an editor of the e-zine\u00a0Switched On Gutenberg<\/em>.<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" New Year’s Eve, 1921 I was combing my sister’s fragrant hair, braiding it down her white nightgown, when Mother came into the room to tell us The world will end tonight, sometime before the year is over. Out of … Continue reading
\nbraiding it down her white nightgown,
\nwhen Mother came into the room
\nto tell us The world will end tonight,<\/em>
\n sometime before the year is over.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nWe shivered and sniffed on the cold floor
\nas she wept above our heads, calling
\nOh, hasten time towards Your Glorious End,<\/em>
\n which I and my two lambs eagerly wait, Amen.<\/em><\/p>\n
\ntwining our feet together for warmth.
\nThe preacher\u2019d predicted the scythe would reap
\nso fine a path that of two in the bed,
\none would be saved, the other doomed.<\/p>\n
\nmy sister and myself were both equally
\nguilty of the sins of children: inattention,
\ndisobedience, dirt. Which of us
\nwould rise through the room’s frost air,<\/p>\n
\nupon the warm wind of God? Which,
\nwaiting to be lifted, would plummet
\nplunged into to the icy lake of Hell?
\nMy salvation would be my sister’s doom.<\/p>\n
\nof being alone, of being caught
\nin a selfish wish, I lay, listening
\nto her breathe, trying not to think,
\nuntil the cuckoo clock panted midnight.<\/p>\n
\nor colored hats: just the blessed relief
\nof quiet, thoughtless sleep.
\nNext morning at the breakfast table,
\nMother served oatmeal and red-eyed silence.<\/p>\n