Issue 14
Hitler Disapproves

of the makeup, smoking, the nude sun-bathing.
Today Eva wears an open umbrella, in a confused game

of paper dolls. And shoes, long legs, carefully curled bangs,
an odd smile, like someone has said something mean

and she’s not sure she can laugh. Eva always laughed.
Eva never did. Contradictions. But who can dispute a bullet

to the chest but G-d, and who can escape an overdose like Eva?
(Don’t complicate things with answers. Don’t make this

personal.) Her heart beats Rienzi with its murmur.
Of her two small dogs she has a favorite, and if Mengele points left

she looks away. Eva lives only for Hitler’s love, she writes,
she swears to follow him anywhere. Hopefully to a good party,

but even death will do, and does. In Hell, the two start to squabble.
Eva’s makeup melts away and this makes her angry, prone to argue.

It’s just too hot for clothes, but Hitler doesn’t understand this.
Eva wants him home more, promises to dress if he will stay, but he

finds Hell so much more cramped, there’s no way to be alone.
Eva’s dinners always burn, her parties end early if they start, and

smoking is frowned upon. She is frowned upon. But every time
she ties the noose to a stalactite, the knot slips through. All the guns

belong to angels, and anyway, what good would they do?
Just scar her, and that happened long ago.