that brilliant beam of light, that laser at the end
of your lightning arm. How those photons stir
my brain. We red shift our way through space
with only our separate skins to remind us of our
names. I imagine eating your cake, the one you
spread with chocolate ganache, and serve up
to helpless, hungry guests. My tongue swells
and I imagine drinking your eyes. I have spent
the morning cooking for you in my paltry way,
green curry chicken thick with cilantro
and coconut milk and the pepper paste you love.
I boil and reduce.
I imagine hacking into your Facebook account,
posting your brilliant trivialities:
Today I have two thumbs, tomorrow maybe more.
I have wandered in the groves of the sea and touched
slippery brows of whales. When squirrels run across
my roof, I sing to them in tongues of fire
and melting snow. All must ‘like” me and despair.
I’ve tattooed your profile picture on the secret
parts of me; imagined my lips, the honey
of your flesh, the ladder I might have climbed to change
a flickering bulb or whisper my devotion to the sad faced moon.
In town men carry swords
as if this were a kind of
parade of tears through winter ice.
They have come to bury
a heart in the snow, to bear
the burden of eyes.
All night they listened for moths
murmuring in attics secured with chains
gnashed their teeth against bedposts and nails.
Their wives dart and skip blue
as parakeets, their sons carve
demons in tough
flesh of leafless trees.
When will their daughters
return from sullen hills with noses
bitten by crows?
Here in cold gray sun, they spit blood
and whisper of lips and wings and cryptic birds.
Steve Klepetar's work has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His chapbook, My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto, was recently published by Flutter Press.