"And Truths Were Spoken"

Her limbs at right angles to the sides of the bed, lavender sheets the color of spring dusk, and her body rests in it unsettled, devoured by lucid dreaming, tortured with words of another formed in harsh tones. Pain is condensation on the high brow with strands of chlorine-stained hair plastered askew making a death mask. She is awakened by lips taking of her flesh not willfully given; the sensation akin to desperate grasping to take back something stolen in the name of property and posterity. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"Dispositions:

We are separated by one hour and twelve minutes, a geographic closeness finding us expelled from different mothers, but somehow alike in matters of disposition and soul. You are the parts of me I keep tucked under the shell, the parts that sting eyes when seen, those that burn a finger's touch, the kiss that scorns loves presence. Your stare tells me everything I need to know about pain and suffering, the vulnerability of man despite tough exteriors, and hands that brush off attacks hoping for exclusion from the truth, but at the heart of our connection, the place where palms graze each other in passing, we find the essence of our beings constructed of the same thread weaved inward over time. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"Guard Dog"

Microscopic knives pierce holes into my flesh as the words you utter find their way through me, imperceptible to the masses but wrapped in arsenic that seeps to my heart. Your love sits in the corner on guard, a growling, seething junk-yard dog that I do my best to ignore, in hopes that you will just disappear in the froth and hatred from your mouth. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"What Lies Beyond The Night"

A breath of wings as the owl scourges the night, its eyes of light reflecting like glass jewels, talons tipped in bloodstones, grasping branches of trees standing straight in the absence of roots. They are mere vertical bones that sleep in darkness like prodigal daughters in white silk sheets, while rivers of snow twisting into water seep beneath them, skin untouched by elements and labors. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Wings of Icarus 9/07

"Invisible Hatreds"

Grandmother takes the needles from the pine bough, threads them with invisible hatreds, each cotton string dipped in a fine coating of shames. She holds me in contempt of the old ways, working her needles into the core of what makes me a woman, a flower. She stitches together the earth and metal, connects them to the wood and sets them on fire. The water flows over her hands sewing swiftly the losses and taunting fingers pointed in laughter, getting more embittered by the minute. She absolves herself of the burdens placed upon her own head, by her grandmother, empties into me the daggers laid into her for not being a sun. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published Munyori Poetry Journal 10/07

"Text"

Sometimes the weight of one solitary word (situation) is enough to sink me under the surface, the water slowly engulfing the openings of my skull, the muddy line seamless to my skin, ghost kisses to eyelids like a death so yearned for, yet mourned as well. But it is this stone of a word (situation) on my brain that slips me down as if it were a room to hide my desires, a place to store my tears in jars with lids sealed, my heart in a viewing glass spectators watching it beat evenly and lonely, circulating the blood of creativity in infinite loops never touching beyond the idea. (situation) Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"Burning"

He sits there with his lion of a heart, burning the dove with its virginal breast bleeding in the mouth, ivory fangs sinking into the flesh deep, piercing something undeniably good, until the breath is escaped. This worn, misshapen hand reaches, unable to release the clenching jaw, its destruction visible from this place, where I am wrapped in bubblegum ideals and false pretenses of hope. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Wings of Icarus 9/07

"Pencils and Paper"

It is a race to the school bus stop, though there is plenty of time. She jaunts five steps ahead of me, doesn’t look back or wait. The prospect of sharing secret giggles, learning rhymes, clapping hands, making moony faces at boys trying to win their favor, if for just a moment, and etching out rudimentary faces in crayon, all appeal to your nature. There is some part of me shaking uncontrollably inside, over the fact that I am no longer the center of your universe, that I am less interesting than pencils and paper, no longer captivating now that wheels turn and carry you into social circles to a boy named Robert. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Cerebral Catalyst 9/07

"Native Tongues"

All of their languages swirl around our heads each morning like smoke hanging above water, and we soak our faces in the lilts and inflections of their native tongues straining to understand. These differences do not phase Chloe, she doesn’t recognize discrepancies of skin and eyes and voices like I was raised to notice. And for me, I sit there engulfed, listening to the mothers talking rapidly but soft, with my eyes closed and travel to lands beyond my reach, to find a light hidden in the children, something special and true about the borderless limits to their laughter. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Amarillo Bay 2/08

"Magic To Be Found"

for Edward “I only really feel alive when I’m on the poem,” he tells me, ”the rest of the time I’m waiting to write.” I think about how words take over me, seduce me until I am a writhing puddle on the floor, people walking passed me indifferent to my pain. “I groan and hold my head, can feel them between my lungs,” he says. And I picture him sitting there tortured, with anguish dripping from his face, onto his chest, hand clutching the place where the words claw their way out. “The pen can’t move fast enough to take away the knife,” I tell him through wires and light, wondering if the blood on my blade is his. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by LitUp Magazine 4/08

"Things She Will Never Know"

You tell me about your affinity for Puerto Rican boys as I paint your face with makeup while your girlfriend is at work. Innocently, you speak of delicious caramel skin, eyes black as night, lips soft like pussy willows, and lean muscular shapes of bodies that you grip as you slide into them. Your eyes dash downward from mine telling me this. A half smile starts the flush rising into your delicate high cheekbones eliminating the need for blush. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Zygote in My Coffee Print #4

"Framed"

Your skin translucent and white, framed by ginger hair and meticulously placed bruises by fists of jealousy and rage. The fear gloves you as the dress is pulled over your head. His fingerprints the same color blue reflecting, intensifying, as you prepare to ring in the new year in the chill of this city night, with a smile intact across your lips like a lie too scandalous to be told. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"Under Fathoms"

Sea spray streaks upward as the hull cuts the salt, whitecaps lapping the ship like a lover, and the lolling side to side is a lullaby, something left from childhood, bringing songs without words. The warmth of arms hem in tightly as two skins mutate into one; the singing rises higher and farther; the vibration of synchronized heartbeats, mine and the ocean’s, pulls me home under fathoms of dark green waters into the perpetual night of the sea. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"Indentations"

The sharp cords of your neck muscles meet the collar bone making a divine indentation of flesh, a pool that could hold a thousand tears without spilling as it heaves with your breath, rapid and shallow, when the mark of my teeth trail my presence, and you are left with nothing more than wanting. Aleathia Drehmer 2007 Published by Wings of Icarus

"An Anchor Around Your Free Thoughts"

We walk hand in hand on the forest trail, I can feel your thoughts pulsating through your bony fingers, interlaced between mine, amassing joy at the touch of something pure. There are tortuous moments of silence chiseling our bodies apart as they navigate the uneven ground, toes stepping over rising roots that look like grandmother’s arms, stones erupting, pushing away the layers of lost life making homes for tiny legged potato beetles. Your fingers unravel from mine, your arm twisting taut behind you, shoulder blade cutting through your flesh as you move forward three steps ahead, my shyness an anchor around your free thoughts, and as your hand breaks from mine I am showered with the vision of skin stranding into silk ribbons hung on the hooks of your desire. You find a sharp stick, hold it to your eyes for inspection, lips moving silently, your mind circumnavigating a world I cannot see. You begin writing our poem into the moist earth, with its’ hidden fears, its’ death, its’ seed of life, its’ fragility, with sweeping arcs and dominating angles, standing at first and then falling close to the words you cannot take with you. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"The Poisoning"

The proclamation of my loud shoes against the pavement sets me on edge. The safety of light is sparse between lamps, as the two burning circles barely touch. It is in this place I hear a second set of footfalls, unsure if it is my secret fear of darkness leeching into my ear, or if it is a perpetrator stalking me. My feet scurry beneath me faster, my head on a swivel searching blackness and finding nothing I can place a finger on. The echoes travel closer and quicker in shadows, and the saliva in my mouth runs dry, and my voice wants to scream, but lingers on the back of my tongue, unable to cross the desert of my mouth. There is a clearing with a lake of mercury, the moon floats in the center like a cultured pearl, an imperfection of the highest degree, luring me near. I pull my shoes off breaking into a run, the high grass slicing into my muscles like double-edged daggers as I split the night with my body. I run with arms and legs pumping like a machine in full tilt, running from the echo, running from the defalcator. Diving under the surface of the lake, face painted in molten mercury, poisoning my mouth and my eyes, arms pulling me deeper and deeper into the belly of my monster, its green weedy tongues entangling my limbs until the thrashing is done, until my breath is nothing more than silver bubbles filled with fear, rising to the surface, a woman released. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"Frigid Spaces"

Passing through your house, a breath heard in my ear, a shadow leaking into my head. I turn to see the you that isn’t there, just a pocket of cold air running down my neck, and I know it must be you, I step into this frigid space with lips parted, waiting for the knife of our love to pierce my chest, closing the door on this haunting life so I can sleep again. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"Haphazard Approaches"

Flowers call to the inside of me, not the planting or the growing, but the need to give them a name. The rush of classifying by parts and pieces filled with deconstructing blooms, digging into their haves and have-nots, and diving into microscopic challenges moves me. The book used is more like the code of Hammurabi than science; its immutable attention to detail inspiring elevated states of perfection. The dance of pollination with its haphazard approaches becomes all too evident in the fruits of their labors, sweet swollen ovaries, the golden crowns of flirtation. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"Death and Taxes"

A letter from the IRS creates a rage that mumbles under my breath distracting me from the fight we tangoed with the night before. In slow motion, I watch the car in front of me plow into an orange marbled cat, hind legs bending into unnatural proportions, spine snapping easily into paraplegia. Not one brake light, or turn of the head as flesh was crumpled under new treads, cat left crawling on front paws, claws gripping the blacktop, cries howl out in disbelief. I have taxes to pay. Aleathia Drehmer 2007

"Saints in Waiting"

An old man hovers in the waiting area at midnight with his small, blue eyes muddied from years of alcohol and smoke. I ask him if I can help him and he opens his mouth, teeth rotting, breath laced with drink telling me he needs to talk. He starts with his worries no one loves me nervously touching his face sickness in his family, wrongs and rights committed unto others, love and sadness, old war times, and how the wife tells him to SHUT UP you bastard. Loving words spill from him about his dead father, a man always on the straight and narrow, a man who spoke line after line from the Bible in stern tone. He speaks of his two sisters both smart and good looking, accomplished teachers and nurses, his insignificance apparent, of their distance (with)in geographical closeness. Plastic covered pictures flipped, neat faces of children and grandchildren he never sees or holds run by, animated. He tells me of the time his son hugged him for no reason, tears welling in his eyes, rims red and moist as he carefully touches them away can’t waste what little I have. I stand there with shades of (in)difference, thinking of stories about old beggars at the roadside whom no one will help Will work for food prophets, deities, monks saints in waiting, testing the fiber of humanity, testing the soul’s moral fortitude Aleathia Drehmer 2007