Season in the Night

Your frozen brow drips icicles

Chilling down my neck

Your blue glass stare, a fetter

Enchants me upward to flurry skies

The fountain trickles of your lip

Camilla petals that graze my nose

Crying exquisite tender strength,

Royal garlands down my breast

Beneath June’s humid moon

I steal hoarded rain from summer clouds

Gasping in the salty flood,

Of our organic cultivation

My forest path crowds with yellow boughs

Ten leaves conforming to my side

I gather brown with your release

Greedily hoard crisp foliage and surrender to frosty slumber.

Polish Ban

June and empty pockets

Led my ready hands to work

My summer months spent at a camp

Housekeeping, the thrilling perk

Across the globe they traveled

Squinting beneath American sun

The camera as their ready eye

Ten polish students trained by my arm

A sponge to clean the counter

A stick that sweeps, not “brooms”

The dream of a lovely American wife

Explaining grammar, enjoying the moon

On Wednesday Radek changed sheets

I kneeled while scrubbing the tub

The daily battle to complete maid service before one PM

His challenging inquiries chaffed me to the nub

Camp’s policy on alcohol

Unacceptable, forbidden fruit

His face upturned in a sour bite

Pondering delicious surge of the prohibited brute

On Sunday travel reigned abroad

Of news and guilty feet

Refusal to obey a simple restriction

Due to appetite carried over seas

Local liquor purchase under dim stars

For thirsty girls deemed legal youth

Bringing Polish customs and disregard

Under the sky of red white and blue

Four hours and three packed suitcases later

I was robbed a proper goodbye

The Bow

Trouble my heart

Grind the nape of my neck under grisly grace nails

Remove my footing

Falter my assurance and rattle me with doubt

Defeat me.

Scourge these arid planes where remorse

Left, holding hands with pure youth.

This desert bleeds vile fumes

Shatter the swindled glass of a thief

With your hammer blow these weak hips

Pronounce obeisance; downturned palms, covered knees

Fortify; drive my face in to the earth.

Discovery Unmatched

Solid casing protects pages soft

You sit unopened under Keats Donne and Frost

Shielding letter jungles uncharted

Tattered spine, grey binding

Granite skin for decades fading
Cradle the unspoken map

I discover you

Implore your fragile tale
Your spine moans with barren ache

Naked words inhale, to clear your shrouded lungs

Breathing shrill air, melt and

Drench dried cracked pages
With the moist flood of our soundless exchange

I read you

Become the verdant soil of your forest
Gripped, rooted, trailed, burrowed, fertile
The ground beneath a silent wood
Whose touch is like poetry

Speak Well

What I have seen mirrors your vision

Yellow digs deeper holes in these dark caves

What I have smelt trails behind your scent perception

Wine perfume sends this pulse to rage

What I have touched shadows your handled path

Balmy skin traces over this arctic core

What I have tasted imitates your palate last

Ginger pop travels backward to illness before

What I have heard contradicts your tall tale

Horrid lips deceive; fail the naivety of these ears

Third Grade

I sat in the front row of Mrs. Olsen’s third grade class. The chalk board spanned the length of my view, claustrophobically outlined by the blue rim of my glasses. I became familiar with the homework section on the right in contrast with the calendar on the far left. My seat was close but not uncomfortable.
It was the week we were presenting our favorite hobbies to the class. Each day five students were scheduled to stand in front of my desk and explain their favorite pass time. When Daniel presented his origami, he walked around the class demonstrating how to create a small paper swan. His hands smelled like urine up close. I watched as Alexandra showed us how to make Asian dumplings. I was distracted by the musty smell and decided not to try them. When my turn came, I set my scrap book up on the chalk ledge with my favorite pages exposed to the class. It was from the trip with mom’s extended family down to Virginia Beach. I loved how the yellow and blue paper complimented the shots of us on the beach. My rough presentation of how to put together a scrap book included stylized scissors, shape cutters, stickers, paper colors and a list of where these items could be purchased. As I spoke, students passed around pictures that I intended to insert into my book later.
When my presentation was over, the day was similarly at an end. Mrs. Olsen reminded us to keep up with the chapters in Bud Not Buddy. We were sent off with the subtle clang of a bell, and all arose to retrieve our book bags off their respective hooks. A sudden bump in the shoulder caused me to look quickly to my left, only to see Isaac walking quickly past. His backwards sneer proved he meant to be pushy. Looking down passively, I kept towards the hook with my name on it. In my peripheral vision I saw Isaac and his friend, Chinua whispering to each other. They seemed to be mocking someone, the huge grins and wide eyes gave that away. As I picked up my backpack, Chinua turned towards me. Laughing he said,
“I bet you like it with the lights off, don’t you!” Turning to Isaac, both boys burst out in animated spurts of “Ha, Ha’s”. My face immediately went red with the attention of two laughing class mates, my eyes shot to my shoes.
I hardly knew anything about the subject, but my mind was opened to the embarrassment. My virtue was stung by their jibing comments and spurred me towards angry tears. I ran to the bathroom, shut the stall door and held my wet face in my hands. My chest of innocence was pilfered that day.