During the war, my grandmother
sent springerle to American soldiers
in Germany. They could survive the trip,
their cookie lifespan equal to three hundred
human years. Two days to beat, to chill,
to roll, to stamp, to bake their powdered sugar,
flour, and eggs. A wooden mold—six pictures
carved by my great-grandfather in Dresden
that she explained: Fish for faith, Deer for Christ,
Cherries for love, Rose for the seal of Luther,
Bell to announce His coming, Castle to enter
the world beyond.

But I thought of them only as cookies
we made in December. Each cookie neatly placed
on a sheet sprinkled with anise. Before they went
into the oven, imprinted dough was left to dry
uncovered overnight. Atop our piano, pale squares
aligned like cemetery rows.

Published in Hawai'i Pacific Review

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Mohamed Sarfan's picture

Dear Poeter, From the pages of history to the events of the present, time suffers from not being able to wash away the bloodstains of battlefields. Every drop of life shed here feels silent inside the grave, the impermanence of life. All The Best My Dear Friend; Write More Congratulations

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