is bored and has a mirror.  Julia
is a bright hook, very slender
though strong, enough to hoist
this body to its feet each day.
Julia is a bad story. Is a formidable
presence. Is happy in this picture.
Julia is seventeen and is fifteen and is
eighteen. She is nineteen but she
is not, is never, never will be twenty.
Julia is the smell of brown leaves
and iron, one coming through
the bedroom window, the other
is the heavy air of the room,
the ruin of the linens. Julia is
the smell that rises from the stain
on the quilt. Is the weight under it that
won’t wake, is the Lied ohne Worte that
somehow I can still make sound
from this wooden box of felt-covered
hammers below her in the parlor, is
a small mud figurine a little body
holding a tiny doll made of pearls
and fat that shares her name.


David Blomenberg’s work has appeared in The DMQ Review, The Kenyon Review, The Salzburg Poetry Review, and elsewhere.  He co-authored a book on the life and paintings of Indiana artist and composer T. J. Koch, and is currently working on transcribing and editing his musical scores for a future volume. “Julia” is from a manuscript that touches on elements from the composer’s life. David Blomenberg lives in Indianapolis.

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