She woke to rain battering her roof,
felt wet wind through window screens.
Slowly she released her breath, watched
its white thread rise among soaking clouds.
Her eyes ate puddles stippled with drops.
Slowly she loosened her hair, let it spill
to the floor, where it hissed and smoked
and disappeared. She unhooked her nose,
dropped her ears into a bucket of ice,
carefully tucked her smile into a blue
leather bag. As the wind died and clouds
broke and drifted east, she unzipped
her skin, stepping out into the hall.
“Now,” she whispered in a new voice
brimming with gravity’s pull. All over
the sodden yard, oaks shivered, late
blooming lilies swayed. Then she opened
her chest, felt it throbbing there, her burning core.
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.
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