All morning the air has throbbed with possibilities.
She works unconsciously, a flurry of hands
moving through household tasks in the kitchen
with its coffee scent. She’s attuned to something
breathing, some subtle motion just beyond her
senses’ ken. Maybe someone has walked across
her grave, causing that shiver along her pale neck,
or it could just be a shadow in the trees.
In the afternoon, she watches the gray hawks
who’ve come to nest in her yard as they circle,
looking for prey. One strikes a squirrel, but
it’s too big and full of fight, squirming around
to thrash itself free of those talons. Then it’s gone
up a tree and all is silent. The hawks swoop,
then light on the neighbor’s newly painted fence.
She thinks of her hands as they swoop to her hair,
how she would use them to swim through a hole
in the air, how she would disappear into a life of flame.
“If the world were clear, art would not exist”
Her day self meets friends. They laugh easily,
exchange recipes, touch hands without self
consciousness or restraint, keep their hearts
connected with ropes of golden words.
Often they share meals, cut bread
for one another, find ways to live inside
each other’s eyes. Her night self climbs
the rope of her own hair, up the slick tower
through rags of cloud and gleaming moon
to where witches wait with potions and shadow
eyes. Below, her body tosses under quilts.
Free of that weight, she conjures images of storm
surge, sails torn, flapping wildly from trembling masts.
Steve Klepetar’s work received three nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net in 2014. Recent collections include: Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications), Blue Season (with Joseph Lisowski, mgv2>publishing), My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein, (Kind of a Hurricane Press).