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About this Poem 

"This poem is 'about' that small chance that leads two people to meet, that small miracle. I was thinking about my husband and how deeply my life is informed by him and then, the small chance that led us to meet, the distance between our childhoods, where we grew up (me, in California and Germany; he in the Mid West and Greece)."
—Cynthia Cruz

Hotel Berlin

Cynthia Cruz

In the rooms of a rundown palace
You said, Ruined. You said, Princess.

You said nothing to me
For three long weeks.

The color of that room
Is eel-black.

When I was a girl and still
German, I stood alone

At the end of the sea.
You may have loved me then

I sent a message through the cages
Of a great whale’s teeth.

For three weeks, I did not sleep.
I set jars of sweet milk and baskets

Of bright berries and red
Marmalade outside your door

In the dream
Where you come to me

I kiss your mouth
Tasting the secret

Letters of your history.
I swear

Somewhere in Siberia
A godly ocean of bison

Still roam free.
You, kneeling before me,

In this,
The last and final room.

Copyright © 2013 by Cynthia Cruz. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on July 19, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Cynthia Cruz

by this poet

poem
I crawl along the wet floor
Of my mother's childhood,

A serpent, or a long-buried secret,
In my mother's bisque
Chiffon gown with small stars

Stitched in silver, a crown
Of tinsel pinned into the dark
Blonde knots and dreads of my hair.

I follow a sequin thread of dead
Things, stop when the moon clocks out,