The Last Dance of Eva Braun
By Steve Denehan
The air is tight beneath the burning grass
of a falling Berlin
above us, a hell of our design
while we sit in our bunker
in silent flickering light
we can sense it, the end, it slithers about the floor
in amongst our feet and we are numb now
waiting, as dust falls from the ceiling
with each determined pulse above
you sit, hunched, across from me
staring at the floor, your generals long since fled
their singsong loyalty in smoking pieces between your boots
I stand and cross the room
and start the gramophone
the needle scratches
you look up
to see me standing there
in your favourite dress, blood red roses at the bodice
I remember when you said
“all blood is innocent” and
then the music starts to play
yet you do not stand
and do not speak
and so, for this dance, I know
that now is the time when I must lead
that you let me is at once endearing
and devastating, so devastating
yet we dance, as artillery falls above us
in time with booming drums and
bullet casings land
supernaturally in parallel with swirling piano
and then I hear you, while we sway
humming gently in my ear
we are on Lake Constance once more
leaving fading footprints
in the settling dust
behind us
Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. Recent publication credits include Better Than Starbucks, Fowl Feathered Review, The Blue Nib, The Opiate, The Hungry Chimera, Poetry Quarterly, Evening Street Review, The Folded Word, Ink In Thirds, Crack The Spine, The Cape Rock, Visions International and Third Wednesday. He has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and his chapbook, "Of Thunder, Pearls and Birdsong" is available from Fowlpox Press.