Amsterdam

April 2025 | poetry

Needles glittered on the streets in the soft Dutch dawn,
like shards of broken glass catching the light.
Children drifted in and out of narrow passageways,
their movements sluggish as the canals,
like something waiting to drown.

Behind the street where Anne Frank’s House stood,
a small, brown building crouched—
the hostel, ten bunks crowded into a room
heavy with the stench of dope and damp.
The showers sputtered when you forgot your coins,
cheap shampoo burning your eyes,
clouding the world into oily blurs.

Jakob, the owner, wore purple eyeshadow,
smoked maroon cigars that left the air thick and bitter.
Behind the front desk, a menorah stood,
its red candles unlit and melted,
wax globs like forgotten rubies.
On the opposite wall, a photograph:
a family, dark-eyed, arms crossed
in a field of sunflowers, waiting.
Each face marked with a bold red X,
sharp as a blade.
No one asked why.

Bill, the American boy who helped Jakob,
checked our passports, handed out keys,
cooked breakfast, inspected for bedbugs.
His face, a battlefield of purple acne,
flushed every time someone said thank you.
Five years ago, he checked in and never left,
becoming part of the place like the wallpaper.
Jakob adored him—
squeezing his shoulder, murmuring,
“Bill, Bill,”
as if speaking the name too loudly would make him vanish.

Bill wore long sleeves,
but the scars on his wrists, pale as ghosts,
were impossible to ignore.
One night, we missed curfew.
The bell rang, slicing the silence like a siren.
When Jakob answered, mascara smeared,
his bloodshot eyes wide,
a violet scarf unraveling from his neck,
he whispered,
“Bill is gone.”
His mouth opened and closed,
like words were too much to hold.
“Leave Amsterdam. Leave now.
It is the city of the dead.”

We ran upstairs,
locked our doors.

In the morning,
the hostel was empty.
Suitcases tumbled down the stairs
like forgotten promises.
I looked for Jakob, for Bill,
but the only thing left
was the photograph—
the family, the red Xs,
burning so bright
I had to close my eyes.

Penny Jackson

Penny Jackson is an award-winning writer who lives in New York City. Her books include Becoming The Butlers (Bantam Books) and a short story collection, L.A. Child and other stories (Untried Reads.) She won a Pushcart short fiction Prize and was a McDowell Colony Fellow. Penny is also a playwright with plays produced in New York, Los Angeles, Edinburgh, and Dublin. www.pennybrandtjackson.

Good Sins

April 2025 | poetry

Their fires have spread from sea to the mountains

Circle the wagons, our herds have fled

Night crackles like a fox

Is that a carriage, a hotel, charged with what?

The old country is filled with that morning light

We look for in paintings with one old tree

A clearing beside a road with one lone traveler

Golden bramble, homes made light

Smoke in whirlpools from the chimneys

Her cheek is your jewel, that map on the wall

Measures the radius of desire

That skull is your marital contract

That branch stretching from her crown

Is a symbol for solitude en plein air

And visible behind a lilac shade is a young prince

Fixing the queen’s long ochre pipe

The Good Solomonite fixes her tea

Some men live lives so voluminous

Their images profligate, disperse & are nothing

Better than all else to have the one thing

A flood, a crash, another tour somewhere

That might as well be ether: it is the one image

That will get us there

Listen, go down—go down then come back up

This is all one does, all one is

Soft train sounds

On a rainy day

Softer than rain

Sam Kerbel

Sam Kerbel was shortlisted for the 2024 Oxford Poetry Prize. His first chapbook, Can’t Beat the Price (2025), is available from Bottlecap Press. His poems are forthcoming from Eunoia Review and Libre.