Public Republic

Sonja de Vries

Photo: kyle simourd

I can still feel the bicycle
beneath me carrying
me through rain slick streets
past soldiers, trash piled high,
hacked up furniture,
stumps of trees
every bit of wood in the city
burning. I was fifteen,
my pants hung down low
like they do now for fashion.
I was not fashionable. I was
hungry. Sometimes my eyes
made the soldiers question me,
but there was nothing
written on my identification card,
no star on my breast.
I was a courier. Leaflets stuffed
in my shirt kept out the cold.
Extra food rations lined
my boots. One night
I carried a radio down my pants,
every bump on the road
made me want to blast
news through the streets,
fly fast on my bike
faster than the soldiers in their jeeps,
faster than their tanks, faster than their legs
pumping under full bellies,
all the windows open to hear the news;
“ Nazi’s chased all the way back to Germany
by teenage boy on bicycle.”