“Herr Grimm,” said the professor,
staring down the side-burned, half-cocked smile;
a man who knows too much, a German in modern fairytale.
“Und Sie auch, Herr Grimm.”
The brothers snigger behind their cell phones.
“Greta ate too much Kinder chocolate.”
The hallways, awash with rumor, foiled tongues:
the Grimms listen, tap out the stories on tiny keyboards,
placate the rumor-mongers and beg for more.
“Häns fell apart at the PfeffernÃ¼sse.”
Outside by the Currywurst cart, the Grimms hear,
“I thought her red hood was stylish, but it attracted ‘””
The two Turkish girls back-and-forth,
headscarves flashing red in the sun,
curry ketchup like blood on their take-away plates.
“The linguistic rule states,”
the brothers present in class, interrupted by whispers:
“They met at the Diskothek; he kissed her sleeping on the couch ‘””
“Her white face, her red lips: irresistible!”
“She seemed to like it.”
Rumors, rumors, fact.
Dredged from the Neon Forest, into the Innenstadt.
At the DÃ¶ner stand, under the moon:
the Grimms eat and think and text.
A grinning man offers the lost lamb
BIO: Jesika Brooks is a recent grad with a fondness for fairy tales both new and old. She digs illustration, language change, and pop culture minutiae. A good pun is her Achilles’ heel.
IMAGE: Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, Berlin Street Scene, 1913