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River Murmur
Inside my chest curls a river I've never followed
You wait somewhere on the shore.
Which bank of the river, I do not know.
I hear you talking.
To whom do your words belong?
Follow a leaf on the current of this poem.
I will wait down river, and when I see you coming,
I will swim over.
We'll stand in the shallows
over the sandbar;
green reeds will shade us;
this poem will shine over you.
You have set whatever fire consumes this page.
These letters sway and arc from your hair.
Night writes with dark letters,
behind the sun's light,
Inside my chest curls a river I've never followed
You wait somewhere on the shore.
Which bank of the river, I do not know.
I hear you talking.
To whom do your words belong?
Follow a leaf on the current of this poem.
I will wait down river, and when I see you coming,
I will swim over.
We'll stand in the shallows
over the sandbar;
green reeds will shade us;
this poem will shine over you.
You have set whatever fire consumes this page.
These letters sway and arc from your hair.
Night writes with dark letters,
behind the sun's light,
Brandon Cesmat
I often lie awake without you and say your name
the murmur in this poem.
I sing songs.
I run.
Follow the rising of my chest.
My river floods its banks.
Move the poem out of my hands.
You have dived into the river with me.
In the water we touch
suspended over the sand,
no need to hold my breath and dive.
The current carries us and rushes past.
We hold one another; we drown; we part and swim.
It is the only way I can come to you.
I often lie awake without you and say your name
the murmur in this poem.
I sing songs.
I run.
Follow the rising of my chest.
My river floods its banks.
Move the poem out of my hands.
You have dived into the river with me.
In the water we touch
suspended over the sand,
no need to hold my breath and dive.
The current carries us and rushes past.
We hold one another; we drown; we part and swim.
It is the only way I can come to you.
| Shadow Around the Ring Brandon Cesmat after Chekov My father makes me weary on this mountain so tall the clouds bruise the summit. Yesterday, he made us cut branches off a white fir that fell in last winter's snows. We set these branches around the stone ring for bedding. Last night in the hard, smoky cold, I woke twice and saw him poking coals and feeding another split to the flames. When he looked at me the corners of his mouth lifted and then fell before he turned to the dark, as if he too were tired of being with people. Driftwood Calm Joe Milosch The wind ate faces off cliff caves, and scoured them clean of everything but wing-flap echoes. An otter broke from brush above the inlet and leaped wiry-wild along the bank. He splashed into the ocean, swam towards mussel-coated rocks He dove three times. On the third dive, I lost his brown eyes, the droplets of water he shook from his head, lost his leg folded across his chest like an old man folds his arm at his brother's funeral. Lost was his driftwood calm, his focus on his meal, and the slide of shell out of paws. I lost him among waves, white water, as behind the sunset the sky looked like a wall. Across it, the wind stirred sun-torched streaks, a sign there is a wall I'll never touch or breach. HAYWAGON Sylvia Levinson A week's worth of Ohio summer rain Gave way to hot August sun. Two days of bright blue sky, Plowed fields steaming. We bounced as we clung to The bed of the haywagon, My sister Sandi, Mom and I, While Dad drove the John Deere Pulling us along to collect cut alfalfa. Sweat rivered down our bodies as We gathered child-sized armfuls of damp hay, While Dad, barechested, muscles bulging, Hefted huge piles with a pitch fork Till the wagon mounded high. Then we climbed on top of that pale green heap Our damp nest of honey-fragrant alfalfa, Its prickly ends sticking into our Freckled arms and legs. The wagon lumbered back toward the barn, Clumsy across mud-rutted fields, Listing like a fat oil tanker in a rolling sea, Till two of its narrow rusted wheels Sank into a soft mud trough. The wagon angled vertical, Dumped over into the mud, The whole load of hay on top of us. Mother, Brooklyn born and raised, Screamed for my father to help. But I, raggedy farm girl, Lay there, taking it all in. The weight of hay pressing down on me, The grit of viscous mud on my face, Capturing the memory of my sixth summer: Steamy, dreamy sweet alfalfa. |
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