By Christina Hennemann

Sleepless for two years and a half,
912 days in the dark but wide awake,
Black circles under my eyes, the shock
Sitting right on top of my pallid forehead.

Blurry Sepia photographs drill into my skin
Like barbed wire, a fence keeping me away 
From a juicy sweet green meadow called peace – 
My scarred fingers cry tiny bloody tears of shame.

But still, the leather photo album smells so
Velvety and soothing, heavenly bittersweet – 
That my prefrontal cortex mourns past’s death.

I turn to look at you closely, examining: 
Is there that uncanny shadow of doom 
Flickering over your eyes as well, like 
A daunting massive cloud of rainfall?

Never can nor will I be dragged there again,
Into the shade of silvery twisted spook,
Where icy droplets burn my sore limbs
And keep me insomniac, accompanied by
Crooked ghosts of the past, overshadowing
My present and future: my nights are always

Haunted, even though I am safe now.

I long to fall for your smile, fall asleep, fall softly,
But my muscles are froze up and tense, while
My heart keeps pumping fear through my veins.

I close the photo album.
Inhale, exhale, just breathe.

---

Christina Hennemann is a writer and photographer based in the West of Ireland but originally from Germany. At the age of six, she began writing her first English songs and poems with the help of a German-English dictionary. Since then, her English skills have much improved, she hopes. Her most recent publications include orangepeel, Maythorn Mag and The Sunshine Review.

By Christina Hennemann

A grey heron was obstructing my path 
In the middle of the summerly 
Woods smelling of green and air 
I remember it was near a zoo,
A fugitive?

A misplaced augury perhaps –

The heron appeared a few steps in front of me
Out of the blue, 
On the soft organic narrow forest trail,
Immovable, like
A stone with
Watchful eyes.

It seemed giant and gloomy and alien 
In the waterless woody drought. 

Solely for you I managed to walk past it
In fear, shaking, trembling but
Victorious.

The heron didn’t move 
One bit – 
What became of it, 
I don’t know,
I didn’t attempt to take the auspices.

When I told you of my bravery, 
You were proud of me and
My heart was bubbling lava.

But now, creeping from the depth of my
Gut feeling,  
Just before I fall for a warm foggy dream,  
I feel like the heron has reappeared – 
It’s sitting in the dark for sure, 
I can’t see it but 
It’s there, 
Suddenly scary again.

A barrier, stone-grey and frightening 
Insuperable without bait.

An unfavourable omen? 
An obstacle, without question.

---

Christina Hennemann is a writer and photographer based in the West of Ireland but originally from Germany. At the age of six, she began writing her first English songs and poems with the help of a German-English dictionary. Since then, her English skills have much improved, she hopes. Her most recent publications include orangepeel, Maythorn Mag and The Sunshine Review.