Wall to Vanity

Stacey Mann

the beginning quite glibly has just been run over,

a tram-car at Patriarch’s Pond whirled and pitched,

poor thing, it must have slipped on frosted glass.

The blind sun, plucked by the sleeve, whispered to,

winked at, meanders by the river – at the same time

disaster struck, the bicycle stopped the moment

the front wheel, disabled, picked up the receiver

and here discovered Nikanor Ivanovich was dead.

The ushers of God, among other things, were running

around looking quite indecent, not yet golden but white.

“Good Heavens, we know precisely nothing of what

is written in the Gospels,” they said. Berlioz stopped

short, separated from asphalt paved winter by a seedy

cast-iron fence. A snow pile stuck a shovel

in summertime, called it ‘The House of Griboedov’

whether it did or did not belong. On recollection,

one Moscow liar read passages from Woe

From Wit though devil knows how unfortunate Mikhail

was shot this minute! The news spread through

Thursday morning’s thirty-two such declarations:

Pilate disappeared into the sixth entrance,

not a grain of doubt left – the end had been unstuck

About the Work

Stacey Mann

A multi-genre writer, Stacey Mann recently graduated from Stetson University and is now finishing up a Masters of Theological Studies at Harvard Divinity in Religion, Ethics, and Politics. Her work also appears in the Buddhist Poetry Review, Touchstone, Harvard’s Dudley House Review, and Wick.

back to:

From the Archives