I want to punch things---
his face, our failed
marriage, his inability to live
now, his incessant need to fumble
backwards in loop, his voice
a skipping record.
I want to scream obscenities
into the phone, decimate
what’s left of him, knock
him further into the ground
so he can’t resurrect Lazarus
again and again and again,
each time voiding another
good memory from our crumbled
union.
But I cannot
I will not
I won’t.
Instead I breathe deeply
and imagine myself
encased in the ribs
of Gandhi.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Leaf Garden Press 3/10
Friday, January 28, 2011
Loose Netting
My limbs slide through the water
without resistance,
tepid waves swallow me
in a vacuum of fragile, braided reflections
as my face submerges.
Water fills the crevices of my body
like whispers. I think of your
grasping hands like loose netting
slipping over my flesh
as I sink to the bottom.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Leaf Garden Press 3/10
without resistance,
tepid waves swallow me
in a vacuum of fragile, braided reflections
as my face submerges.
Water fills the crevices of my body
like whispers. I think of your
grasping hands like loose netting
slipping over my flesh
as I sink to the bottom.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Leaf Garden Press 3/10
No Longer Will I Be Hungry
Light snow falls in thrown light,
me, spread out alone
with the sound of cycling breath
easy in late hours.
The mind wanders
into new lover’s beds, men
who don’t tarry; explorers
here only to claim parcels
of a fleshy tome for respective
queens and kings.
Tongues warm against breasts,
skilled fingers tracing shin blades,
soft lips meek on inked knees, and
all their bodies jagged and diminished;
our meeting pure existentialism.
And when they have claimed me
with colorful flags of arms,
filled bellies and eased minds,
I am left alone in snowed light
smiling into easy breathing
of late hours.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Leaf Garden Press 3/10
me, spread out alone
with the sound of cycling breath
easy in late hours.
The mind wanders
into new lover’s beds, men
who don’t tarry; explorers
here only to claim parcels
of a fleshy tome for respective
queens and kings.
Tongues warm against breasts,
skilled fingers tracing shin blades,
soft lips meek on inked knees, and
all their bodies jagged and diminished;
our meeting pure existentialism.
And when they have claimed me
with colorful flags of arms,
filled bellies and eased minds,
I am left alone in snowed light
smiling into easy breathing
of late hours.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Leaf Garden Press 3/10
Sober
Meek and in the corner,
she was the only one sober enough
to hear me say I was going
to the corner gas station for smokes.
She sidled up to me
and put on her coat, insisting.
I shrugged rippled with tequila
and recklessness and walked out the door.
In front of the house on the return,
we had silent folded arms under stars,
hers long and thin like bird wings tucked
under, mine lost in a coat too big.
She had something to say, I could sense,
but not enough gumption to start so
I began speaking of the fragilities of new love
and old thin strangulations by men,
hers physical and mine always mental.
She recalled her year in a domestic
abuse shelter, hiding with her daughter
and had I not been drunk already, I would
have cried for how lucky I had been
to just be lonely and isolated for years.
We spoke of single motherhood,
of making the grade in unsure times—
divorces and mental institutions looming
and the two of us strangers but together here
always grasping our insecurities with both hands.
They are driven in by false men’s hearts.
They are patted down by the unknowing.
They are looked over by family, the embarrassment
too much for any of them and we swallow
pride on a daily basis, pour secrets into
the night on streets of cities we don’t know
just to somehow get by another day
with a smile pasted to our faces.
And when my cigarette is finished
and our breaths twine in the chill of the night
there is a pause, some understanding
sealed with a nod before rejoining the others
who did not notice our leaving.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Leaf Garden Press 3/10
she was the only one sober enough
to hear me say I was going
to the corner gas station for smokes.
She sidled up to me
and put on her coat, insisting.
I shrugged rippled with tequila
and recklessness and walked out the door.
In front of the house on the return,
we had silent folded arms under stars,
hers long and thin like bird wings tucked
under, mine lost in a coat too big.
She had something to say, I could sense,
but not enough gumption to start so
I began speaking of the fragilities of new love
and old thin strangulations by men,
hers physical and mine always mental.
She recalled her year in a domestic
abuse shelter, hiding with her daughter
and had I not been drunk already, I would
have cried for how lucky I had been
to just be lonely and isolated for years.
We spoke of single motherhood,
of making the grade in unsure times—
divorces and mental institutions looming
and the two of us strangers but together here
always grasping our insecurities with both hands.
They are driven in by false men’s hearts.
They are patted down by the unknowing.
They are looked over by family, the embarrassment
too much for any of them and we swallow
pride on a daily basis, pour secrets into
the night on streets of cities we don’t know
just to somehow get by another day
with a smile pasted to our faces.
And when my cigarette is finished
and our breaths twine in the chill of the night
there is a pause, some understanding
sealed with a nod before rejoining the others
who did not notice our leaving.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Leaf Garden Press 3/10
Waiting by the Window
We carry these symbols like a dedication,
an opening to move freely between us,
as if permission needed granting. They
are collected verbs unused, abject nouns
and solemn whispers through wood.
Their metal adds weight to our chains,
slung easily into pocket or purse,
but remain heavy in hand when
not in use. They are our quiet
neglected conversations;
these keys to each other’s
apartments which never seem
to be of use. On my ring, a duo
of non-descript silver fingers
jangle with the rest of them.
They could be keys to anything, but they
are his. I have marked them in black ink.
His crux to my door is enameled royal
blue and somehow off the mark
a millimeter or two in their making;
no engagement from the tumbler,
no satisfying click and turn. I always
wait by the window anyway.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published as spoken word by The Big Other 1/10
Two dimensional ships set sail
His impatience with me is sometimes
notable as I wander off taking
photographs—finding worlds around
inanimate objects where he sees none.
Our point of views drastically askew,
his alive in the observation of the human
condition, mine static in the imprints
left behind by man and woman.
The vestibule of our sights
is seen from above and below
with our ages dictating the equations
of time and amassed energy.
There is a pinched tone in his voice,
biting tongue at me
always falling behind.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Scythe Literary Journal 1/10
notable as I wander off taking
photographs—finding worlds around
inanimate objects where he sees none.
Our point of views drastically askew,
his alive in the observation of the human
condition, mine static in the imprints
left behind by man and woman.
The vestibule of our sights
is seen from above and below
with our ages dictating the equations
of time and amassed energy.
There is a pinched tone in his voice,
biting tongue at me
always falling behind.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Scythe Literary Journal 1/10
Monday, November 8, 2010
Orphans
For Mark Hartenbach
Addresses scrawled by a stranger's pen,
such mysteries held in manila envelopes
makes one wonder where it will take them,
unsure if glued lip and taped seal
should risk being broken.
Both sit on the table like orphans
hunched on concrete stairs
of an ancient church, pleading
with moon-eye saucers,
heartbeats whisper at a gaze,
the thought of liberation
from this place, faintly possible.
Dry fingers turn the golden paper,
avoiding well plastered edges,
peels the bottom slowly. The fresh book
sits in hand glossy-cold from winter metal.
Her name inscribed inside the cover
appears alien and incomplete.
She is anxious and wary,
begins feeding lines to her head--
none making sense twisting sideways
and upright from crisp ink. They
always start this way, fractured
jagged. She returns for more, same results.
Her feet stir beneath her, inching
to repeat failed attempts once more;
only aloud does it all meld, these manic
stricken lines, these cold pressed moments
of cynical silence and echoed ego.
The cat follows paces behind,
sits when she halts, wants to give
her his downy white belly in submission,
but looks on with caution at her lips
moving, persistent to capture rhythm.
He waits for the turn of the page,
waits for her stillness, if it comes.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Addresses scrawled by a stranger's pen,
such mysteries held in manila envelopes
makes one wonder where it will take them,
unsure if glued lip and taped seal
should risk being broken.
Both sit on the table like orphans
hunched on concrete stairs
of an ancient church, pleading
with moon-eye saucers,
heartbeats whisper at a gaze,
the thought of liberation
from this place, faintly possible.
Dry fingers turn the golden paper,
avoiding well plastered edges,
peels the bottom slowly. The fresh book
sits in hand glossy-cold from winter metal.
Her name inscribed inside the cover
appears alien and incomplete.
She is anxious and wary,
begins feeding lines to her head--
none making sense twisting sideways
and upright from crisp ink. They
always start this way, fractured
jagged. She returns for more, same results.
Her feet stir beneath her, inching
to repeat failed attempts once more;
only aloud does it all meld, these manic
stricken lines, these cold pressed moments
of cynical silence and echoed ego.
The cat follows paces behind,
sits when she halts, wants to give
her his downy white belly in submission,
but looks on with caution at her lips
moving, persistent to capture rhythm.
He waits for the turn of the page,
waits for her stillness, if it comes.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
If under other circumstances we meet again
for Brad Burjan
Life is a helix, which we never grasp,
but strangely trace in the air with fingertips;
nails bitten to the quick unconsciously.
We run its track faithful
of some ending to strung out nights
and reclusive days, the tread of our soles
worn thinner in successive heel-toe combinations.
The crossing over from eight to infinity is nothing greater
than an angle of loops moved to reclining
on the divan; inhibitions release like smoke,
one mad eye watching our endless struggle
in paralyzed freedom.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Publishes by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea)
Life is a helix, which we never grasp,
but strangely trace in the air with fingertips;
nails bitten to the quick unconsciously.
We run its track faithful
of some ending to strung out nights
and reclusive days, the tread of our soles
worn thinner in successive heel-toe combinations.
The crossing over from eight to infinity is nothing greater
than an angle of loops moved to reclining
on the divan; inhibitions release like smoke,
one mad eye watching our endless struggle
in paralyzed freedom.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Publishes by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea)
Between Wales and NY, a conversation
For David E. Oprava
Waiting
for time and god
to show me,
it is all the same
in the end.
Here, without regret,
man quietly steals
all the words
from my mouth.
Sweet morsels lifted,
tip of tongue
emptied onto a passing
universe, deconstructed.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Waiting
for time and god
to show me,
it is all the same
in the end.
Here, without regret,
man quietly steals
all the words
from my mouth.
Sweet morsels lifted,
tip of tongue
emptied onto a passing
universe, deconstructed.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Dies Illa
(after Tammy Foster Brewer)
Yes, I was HER—
that girl stuffed into a mold
too small, her mind convinced
her expanse greater than the plains.
I lived a double life (life). The secret
second binging on food with room lock latched.
The contraband of my desire slowly rotting
under
the bed .
It would go down easy at first,
a slow trickle and burn like a first kiss
that turns to bite you bloody in the end; I’d
force it in then, damage done, to bury it into
a stomach s t r e t c h e d to limit. The void
still gapping in the dusk of teenage summers.
There I am naked with the mirror
my enemy; shadows mock flesh and curve.
Mouth full.
Tears avenge cheeks
with hate
found in every inch of reflection.
Breasts uneven (imperfect)
Arms doughy (imperfect)
Waist full and hips thick (imperfect)
Legs less than feminine (imperfect)
I am unrecognizable.
There are several shades of disgust
gathering on my tongue, none of which would stand
up for me if called upon. They’d laugh outside
courtroom doors, snide and perfectly jaded, feeding
the illusion of perfect to me one dainty morsel at a time.
When it is all swallowed (soul and all)
and the Lacrimosa is on its final string,
I cover up my discretions and pretend to be normal.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Yes, I was HER—
that girl stuffed into a mold
too small, her mind convinced
her expanse greater than the plains.
I lived a double life (life). The secret
second binging on food with room lock latched.
The contraband of my desire slowly rotting
under
the bed .
It would go down easy at first,
a slow trickle and burn like a first kiss
that turns to bite you bloody in the end; I’d
force it in then, damage done, to bury it into
a stomach s t r e t c h e d to limit. The void
still gapping in the dusk of teenage summers.
There I am naked with the mirror
my enemy; shadows mock flesh and curve.
Mouth full.
Tears avenge cheeks
with hate
found in every inch of reflection.
Breasts uneven (imperfect)
Arms doughy (imperfect)
Waist full and hips thick (imperfect)
Legs less than feminine (imperfect)
I am unrecognizable.
There are several shades of disgust
gathering on my tongue, none of which would stand
up for me if called upon. They’d laugh outside
courtroom doors, snide and perfectly jaded, feeding
the illusion of perfect to me one dainty morsel at a time.
When it is all swallowed (soul and all)
and the Lacrimosa is on its final string,
I cover up my discretions and pretend to be normal.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Sunday, November 7, 2010
My mother always warned me
For Mark Hartenbach
I.
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.
II.
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.
III.
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
I.
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.
II.
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.
III.
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
Bathymetric (Building a Tsunami)
For Dan
Hot water illuminates invisible
markings on my rib bones
left by the grip of your hands.
There is a faint outline of your lips
on the pink swell of my breast
and a silver-shadowed trail as your tongue
leads you to worlds unknown.
It is the heat that raises the memory,
my arms taut behind me, gripping thighs
as if my life depends upon it; hips thrusting
forward and hair disheveled while you
elevate me in soft flickering light.
It is the heat that sews the sound of your voice
into my skin in the darkness of these nights.
We connect like tender filaments in thin glass,
joined tentatively, transferring arced energy.
We've become inventors and explorers
sailing in the ocean of uncertainty, words
you know so much about, and each
with sights set on lands and time of snow
where the imprints of our bodies
make angels in the powder and the drawback
no less impressive when glaciers fall into warm seas.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Hot water illuminates invisible
markings on my rib bones
left by the grip of your hands.
There is a faint outline of your lips
on the pink swell of my breast
and a silver-shadowed trail as your tongue
leads you to worlds unknown.
It is the heat that raises the memory,
my arms taut behind me, gripping thighs
as if my life depends upon it; hips thrusting
forward and hair disheveled while you
elevate me in soft flickering light.
It is the heat that sews the sound of your voice
into my skin in the darkness of these nights.
We connect like tender filaments in thin glass,
joined tentatively, transferring arced energy.
We've become inventors and explorers
sailing in the ocean of uncertainty, words
you know so much about, and each
with sights set on lands and time of snow
where the imprints of our bodies
make angels in the powder and the drawback
no less impressive when glaciers fall into warm seas.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09
Pariaman, no more
For Sumatra
The mosque’s minaret
has succumbed to the earth
as she swallows whole
villages in her muddy mouth.
A great underground
t h u n d e r erupts cascades
of rock and thick mud,
envelops a wedding party
at the foothills of the bride’s
childhood home. Her most
precious union sealed in darkness,
her unborn children, myths once again.
Those that still roam find
hands petrified up from the land
like human plants searching
for sun. The dead are carved
from clay by villagers, culled
today only to be replaced
from whence they came
with a prayer for the sending.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
The mosque’s minaret
has succumbed to the earth
as she swallows whole
villages in her muddy mouth.
A great underground
t h u n d e r erupts cascades
of rock and thick mud,
envelops a wedding party
at the foothills of the bride’s
childhood home. Her most
precious union sealed in darkness,
her unborn children, myths once again.
Those that still roam find
hands petrified up from the land
like human plants searching
for sun. The dead are carved
from clay by villagers, culled
today only to be replaced
from whence they came
with a prayer for the sending.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
The place we connect with the earth
I sit fascinated by the tenderness
in his voice as he speaks, imbibing
the curve of a woman's foot
with languid fantasy.
the arch is ivory silk
with feathered creases
to be lost in
His language a confabulation of hushed
words that lick all the angles turned
by her heel hanging over the bed's edge;
his smile overwhelms me.
heart strings plucked
with the simple curl
of her painted pink toes
Pleasure hangs on his lips like an epoch,
hands caress the solid air as if her foot
existed beneath his delicate fingers, as if
he could smell the jasmine lotion on her skin.
I slide my striped sock
over ankle, toe and heel.
I want him to tell my soul
what
matters.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
in his voice as he speaks, imbibing
the curve of a woman's foot
with languid fantasy.
the arch is ivory silk
with feathered creases
to be lost in
His language a confabulation of hushed
words that lick all the angles turned
by her heel hanging over the bed's edge;
his smile overwhelms me.
heart strings plucked
with the simple curl
of her painted pink toes
Pleasure hangs on his lips like an epoch,
hands caress the solid air as if her foot
existed beneath his delicate fingers, as if
he could smell the jasmine lotion on her skin.
I slide my striped sock
over ankle, toe and heel.
I want him to tell my soul
what
matters.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
White Noise
What does one do when haunted
by the white noise of your body?
Long hours alone with riffled papers,
fingers tapping lightly on the desk,
a heaved sigh at banality and its
mere existence in the world.
Each sound laden with its own emotional
consequence and reference that is not
easily distilled; the process
of evaporation requiring more heat
than this chill will consent to.
The whisper the pencil makes
moving dutifully across the page
is an act of love; it captures
the abstract notion in amber
to be discovered in a farther place
and time, but not here, not now,
and all that is spoken about luck
boils down to how far your heart
is willing to open and for how long.
There is no luck in love, only change
and discovery and rekindled fires.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
by the white noise of your body?
Long hours alone with riffled papers,
fingers tapping lightly on the desk,
a heaved sigh at banality and its
mere existence in the world.
Each sound laden with its own emotional
consequence and reference that is not
easily distilled; the process
of evaporation requiring more heat
than this chill will consent to.
The whisper the pencil makes
moving dutifully across the page
is an act of love; it captures
the abstract notion in amber
to be discovered in a farther place
and time, but not here, not now,
and all that is spoken about luck
boils down to how far your heart
is willing to open and for how long.
There is no luck in love, only change
and discovery and rekindled fires.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
Pan/dora
Skylight angled at forty-five
degrees, restless moon
haunting the rims of wood
sparkling off kitchen steel
and everyday glass,
awaiting a simple gesture.
The
cupboard
opens
and closes to something
magical and romantic, a ripe
Pandora's box without
the stardust and chaos,
but with leaned words
laced in fragrant pollens.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
degrees, restless moon
haunting the rims of wood
sparkling off kitchen steel
and everyday glass,
awaiting a simple gesture.
The
cupboard
opens
and closes to something
magical and romantic, a ripe
Pandora's box without
the stardust and chaos,
but with leaned words
laced in fragrant pollens.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
Dan tian
The old Chinese woman
does Qigong on the sidewalk
that slopes downward
like a gentle rolling hill.
She is a graceful crane
with a shock of white hair
and face stolid in morning light.
I stand by the mailbox
listening to the voice from her radio
give instruction in Mandarin
between the crackles of airwave
silence. There was a time
when my feet were planted
in grass, unwavering and calm.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
does Qigong on the sidewalk
that slopes downward
like a gentle rolling hill.
She is a graceful crane
with a shock of white hair
and face stolid in morning light.
I stand by the mailbox
listening to the voice from her radio
give instruction in Mandarin
between the crackles of airwave
silence. There was a time
when my feet were planted
in grass, unwavering and calm.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Sugar Mule 11/09
Chasing Tales
I have found many four-leaf clovers
on the banks of this dyke.
The creek never rises high enough
to prove its worth, and maybe,
we are lucky for that; this land
was once burdened with floods.
It is hard to think here, as if nature
won’t allow it amidst water tumbling
over rocks; the sounds of fall crickets;
birds calling out for saving. Monarchs
and Paper Whites dance against
this unusually blue day while ruby
dragonflies hum like ghosts. But the city
is not too far off, its sounds ply
into this bubble I have built around me—
enough to distract me; I think of how sad
your voice was on the phone, solitary and distant.
You reassure me it is not the state of us,
only life in general. Your head full of reasoning—
trying to sort your place in the world,
running ragged in a circle as only philosophy can do.
I tell you we might never really know why.
You say it must be out there somewhere.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Red Fez, Small Press Editors Edition
on the banks of this dyke.
The creek never rises high enough
to prove its worth, and maybe,
we are lucky for that; this land
was once burdened with floods.
It is hard to think here, as if nature
won’t allow it amidst water tumbling
over rocks; the sounds of fall crickets;
birds calling out for saving. Monarchs
and Paper Whites dance against
this unusually blue day while ruby
dragonflies hum like ghosts. But the city
is not too far off, its sounds ply
into this bubble I have built around me—
enough to distract me; I think of how sad
your voice was on the phone, solitary and distant.
You reassure me it is not the state of us,
only life in general. Your head full of reasoning—
trying to sort your place in the world,
running ragged in a circle as only philosophy can do.
I tell you we might never really know why.
You say it must be out there somewhere.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published by Red Fez, Small Press Editors Edition
My Town
My town has given up
on God and Love,
in that order.
The shelves at the thrift
store are filled with lost
affection, lost inspiration.
Their pockets fill deep
with trinkets and baubles
worn with the age of many owners
and they believe it will mask
despair in the face of a failing
community. We covet false
promises like gold in my town.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published in Alligator Stew (print) 12/09
on God and Love,
in that order.
The shelves at the thrift
store are filled with lost
affection, lost inspiration.
Their pockets fill deep
with trinkets and baubles
worn with the age of many owners
and they believe it will mask
despair in the face of a failing
community. We covet false
promises like gold in my town.
Aleathia Drehmer 2009
Published in Alligator Stew (print) 12/09
The Folk House
I.
Rusted bars creak when your right hand pushes open the gate,
your other, warm and firm in the valley of my back; a gentleman
of the first degree. The gesture at once quickens my heart.
We laugh nervously in the long, dark corridor with its catacomb
silence, and my clicking heels on the Spanish tile ring loud.
The walls rough beneath my fingers, an earthen Braille,
its beauty only grasped in this temporary blindness.
The tunnel opens easily into a courtyard, wooden trellis crowned
and dripping with wisteria, the color reminds me of the lilac still in my hair,
plucked deviously from a stranger's tree, when you said you'd never smelled it.
II.
I listen to the lilt of your voice making small talk, letting you go on,
knowing very well that you hate it, but you sense it will draw me out into this night;
this first mingling in the world without being caught inside the box.
We smoke, inhaling deep the clouded sky heavy with complaint,
the flower’s mixed perfumes, the chatter of friends, and the lingering smell
of our excitement, still fresh on the skin. I look up as the first drops descend,
the stars distant memories tonight; my life changes with each breath,
so fast I am spinning, and then all is quiet: your voice, the city, the people,
and I catch you watching me, smile spreading like a disease.
III.
You let me hold your hand beneath the table, the room lit
with white Christmas strands around the makeshift stage
and the whisper of coup de foudre taking my breath by surprise.
Closer, fire dances in votives by way of ghosts let in
through the high window, making kaleidoscope women behind
the soft brown bottles of Weston's, sweating rings onto the tabletop,
as the singer's voice shocks the air around us all.
We are captured in the church of his piano,
his voice the heaven we can't bring ourselves to believe exists,
and when he reaches the pinnacle, there is silence.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Writer's Bloc, Issue 6, 12/09
Rusted bars creak when your right hand pushes open the gate,
your other, warm and firm in the valley of my back; a gentleman
of the first degree. The gesture at once quickens my heart.
We laugh nervously in the long, dark corridor with its catacomb
silence, and my clicking heels on the Spanish tile ring loud.
The walls rough beneath my fingers, an earthen Braille,
its beauty only grasped in this temporary blindness.
The tunnel opens easily into a courtyard, wooden trellis crowned
and dripping with wisteria, the color reminds me of the lilac still in my hair,
plucked deviously from a stranger's tree, when you said you'd never smelled it.
II.
I listen to the lilt of your voice making small talk, letting you go on,
knowing very well that you hate it, but you sense it will draw me out into this night;
this first mingling in the world without being caught inside the box.
We smoke, inhaling deep the clouded sky heavy with complaint,
the flower’s mixed perfumes, the chatter of friends, and the lingering smell
of our excitement, still fresh on the skin. I look up as the first drops descend,
the stars distant memories tonight; my life changes with each breath,
so fast I am spinning, and then all is quiet: your voice, the city, the people,
and I catch you watching me, smile spreading like a disease.
III.
You let me hold your hand beneath the table, the room lit
with white Christmas strands around the makeshift stage
and the whisper of coup de foudre taking my breath by surprise.
Closer, fire dances in votives by way of ghosts let in
through the high window, making kaleidoscope women behind
the soft brown bottles of Weston's, sweating rings onto the tabletop,
as the singer's voice shocks the air around us all.
We are captured in the church of his piano,
his voice the heaven we can't bring ourselves to believe exists,
and when he reaches the pinnacle, there is silence.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Writer's Bloc, Issue 6, 12/09
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