Hermann's Type



They’re prizes large
as life, but lifeless;
cold as her homeland:
Hermann’s type.

His countess turned
countless: placid in
alabaster, precious
on canvas.

Without breath and
yet deathless, grave girls
stare stunned, triumphant
past ethos

as if Carin
scorned title, son
husband again. As when
Hermann won

his fate-weaver.
She’d lead to Fuhrer;
finish in fever;
he by greed.

Ice-brides saved wear
her face, and in this snow-
globe moment extend
white embrace.




©2000, 2011 Katherine Anne Harris. All Rights Reserved.

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