For Mark Hartenbach
You are a secret
kept under a shell,
the magician’s three-card
folly giving everything, but nothing;
marks on the page as close as one will ever get.
Your body poses a calculated confidence,
more intellect driven than ego ridden,
but my mother always warned me,
the bigger the bark, the smaller the man.
You reek of ebb and flow,
a stream of consciousness
making jagged ripples in the lake’s glass,
only reaching dry land once in several moons,
a solitary boatman without oars,
cynicism and defense easy on the tongue.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09