What could Julia do? Bernard had been the love of her life, her every breath, her heartbeat, her sweat, her longing, her anger, her everything. She felt lost when she woke in the morning to find his side of the bed empty and cold. At first she imagined Bernard at the corner market buying fresh oranges and strawberries and maybe smelling the flowers before paying Carlos with not only money, but also with the kindness of his smile.
When he did not come back after this thought, Julia had to concoct another to excuse his absence. Maybe he went to the record store down the street, she thought to herself, he was just talking about finding that Miles Davis record from a festival in 1969. She imagined Bernard cradling the produce under his arm gently while he fingered the covers of the old records, smiling and nodding when he found something satisfactory and familiar. Julia could almost smell the must of the vinyl and hear that soft sound of pressured air as the records leaned into each other.
Bernard still did not appear after this thought. Julia began to worry a little now. She rose from the warmth of her cotton sheets, her old faded nightgown sliding over her knees where it had crawled up to in the night. She let the floor get sturdy under her feet before putting on her slippers. Julia felt the nervous tremble in her hands begin and hoped she could keep herself from a state of panic.
The lazy morning sun was piling in through the sheer curtains and Julia walked to the window and pulled one aside. The street below was bustling with early morning commuters and children off to the last days of school and old folks that had no other place to be. She scanned the area feverishly for sight of Bernard. There was no trace of him. Julia turned from the window and went to the kitchen to start the coffee. Bernard will want coffee when he returns, she thought.
Julia sat at the kitchen table, the coffee in her mug now cold as she stared at it. It was nearing noon and still he had not come home. Her face looked more aged than it should be at 62 and her thinning hair lay in ragged, dirty strands about her face. Something caught her eye from the center of the table. It was a paper or a card with Bernard’s name and face. Julia reached out but did not touch it. She was unsure of what it could be, or what it could mean. Her arm hung suspended in air, frozen in fear, until at last the tips of her fingers felt the laminated paper beneath them.
She pulled it closer to her face. There was Bernard staring at her so handsome in his wavy chestnut hair and warm smile. She touched his face, his teeth, his eyes, his curved nose. Julia read the words:
“Bernard Jones, loving husband, lay to rest in the arms of God. April 19th, 2010. He is survived by his wife Julia (Martin) Jones.”
“No,” she cried, “no!”
The shiny paper fell from her hand onto the floor. Her arm dropped into her lap like a weight. Julia began to cry.
“How could you leave me Bernard? I loved you from the attic of the world, from that ivory tower you rescued me from. I loved you wider and deeper than any ocean. I loved you. How could you leave me?”
There was nothing but the sound from the street to answer Julia; nothing but the wind blowing the curtains inward; nothing but the pounding of her own heart and the dripping of water into the sink. There was nothing.
Aleathia Drehmer 2010
Published by Haggard & Halloo 8/10
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Philosophy of Heat
Bart and Zaria both lie limp on the blanket under the oak tree at the park. Their books creased open onto their chests recording their ragged breaths in the blistering summer heat. The air is thick as sauna steam and Zaria’s head is pounding with dizziness. She can feel the sweat rolling from her skin and collecting onto the back of her green tank top.
“How hot is it Bart?” she asks almost too slowly so the words sound cryptic.
“Dunno sweetie, ‘bout a hundred I think.”
“Oh. It feels like we are burning in hell.”
“For your sins or mine?”
Aleathia Drehmer 2010
Published by Not From Here Are You? Special Jury Award
“How hot is it Bart?” she asks almost too slowly so the words sound cryptic.
“Dunno sweetie, ‘bout a hundred I think.”
“Oh. It feels like we are burning in hell.”
“For your sins or mine?”
Aleathia Drehmer 2010
Published by Not From Here Are You? Special Jury Award
A Dead Man's Chest
Chad was keenly aware he was trapped behind the fallen rocks. He had felt the rumble as he paddled deeper into the coastal cave. The light from his helmet scattered fractals into the dark churning waters barely lighting up the carved walls. There was history in here and maybe treasure too, but he had come for history. But that seemed less important now.
It took him several minutes to right himself after the boulder broke from the ledge above the cave causing water displacement to smash his kayak against the cool pointed formations. He had kept himself from curling under, just barely, but he had done it. The light had been weak before the opening was sealed but now he was left with only a thin shining from his head lamp. Chad allowed himself to panic for just a moment. His throat was dry and the air now torrid despite the lack of sun.
He had to find another opening before the batteries from the lamp ran dry. Chad hated to defile nature, but considered in times of life or death, being ecologically sound mattered little. He pulled the small can of spray paint from his pack and marked his starting point. He prayed he would not paddle in circles. He prayed for a ray of sunlight. He contemplated all this praying as the stilled waters were cut by his hand hanging over the side. He had come for history. He realized he might be writing his own.
Aleathia Drehmer 2010
Published by Doorknobs & Bodypaint
It took him several minutes to right himself after the boulder broke from the ledge above the cave causing water displacement to smash his kayak against the cool pointed formations. He had kept himself from curling under, just barely, but he had done it. The light had been weak before the opening was sealed but now he was left with only a thin shining from his head lamp. Chad allowed himself to panic for just a moment. His throat was dry and the air now torrid despite the lack of sun.
He had to find another opening before the batteries from the lamp ran dry. Chad hated to defile nature, but considered in times of life or death, being ecologically sound mattered little. He pulled the small can of spray paint from his pack and marked his starting point. He prayed he would not paddle in circles. He prayed for a ray of sunlight. He contemplated all this praying as the stilled waters were cut by his hand hanging over the side. He had come for history. He realized he might be writing his own.
Aleathia Drehmer 2010
Published by Doorknobs & Bodypaint
By the River
Martina sat agitated under the oppression of the Mississippi river. Her blood boiled in the August night, but not specifically from heat. An American named Frank joined her table at the café by the rolling, muddy river. He made small talk and sounded like a Yankee. Frank’s interest in Martina escalated when her French accent touched the air. He studied her face in the syrupy setting sun and how she carried her head and the shine of her chestnut hair with strands jumping loose in the heat.
She winced at his harsh English spewed forth to bait her with conversation about the history of the Louisiana Purchase and whether or not Napoleon did a disservice to France by giving up the port of New Orleans. Frank’s tone was condescending and vile as if he single-handedly supported the acquisition on his shoulders when he wasn’t even an embryonic thought at the turn of the 18th century. His arrogance made Martina livid. She cut him with her tongue and the sharp corners of her knowledge about the dealings of her own country. Both of them were overheated in patriotism.
By the time the fireflies arrived, they were silent and breathing heavy in the dark. Martina wanted to send him to the guillotine. Frank felt like he held the ability to deport her opinions to his back pocket, invoking John Adams Alien Act. He was unsure why he found his lips on hers and even more puzzled she allowed it.
Aleathia Drehmer 2010
Published by Doorknobs & Bodypaint (winner of the Doorknobs section)
She winced at his harsh English spewed forth to bait her with conversation about the history of the Louisiana Purchase and whether or not Napoleon did a disservice to France by giving up the port of New Orleans. Frank’s tone was condescending and vile as if he single-handedly supported the acquisition on his shoulders when he wasn’t even an embryonic thought at the turn of the 18th century. His arrogance made Martina livid. She cut him with her tongue and the sharp corners of her knowledge about the dealings of her own country. Both of them were overheated in patriotism.
By the time the fireflies arrived, they were silent and breathing heavy in the dark. Martina wanted to send him to the guillotine. Frank felt like he held the ability to deport her opinions to his back pocket, invoking John Adams Alien Act. He was unsure why he found his lips on hers and even more puzzled she allowed it.
Aleathia Drehmer 2010
Published by Doorknobs & Bodypaint (winner of the Doorknobs section)
Friday, January 28, 2011
Three for Tea
13 rooms fashioned in a time machine,
the relationship between magic and beauty building
until we collapse on the curved wooden bench,
golden slatted tree hearts carrying our weight,
facing Picabia’s transparencies; eyes twitching then closed.
You tumble at last with face pinned to the glass
admiring Duchamp’s chess set and his headiness
to give it all up for the game, moving pawns
through invisible patterns garnered in both minds,
ten steps ahead of time and space.
We emerge from the end of the tunnel into splintered light, its sudden lift
at once weary and heavy, pushing us down the escalator
through color blocked art we’d never witness. Descention brings
silence, no words equaling the imprints now in cells.
Our bodies part directions at the bottom.
I find you leaning over the rail outside the doors,
the glass towering above you, monolithic, and the fag
in your hand souring the air, the smoke pulls me closer.
I dream of suffocating the images, tweezing each color and form
from between sluiced gray matter with precision.
We curl our chests over together, watch relatives struggle
to push their fat, crippled kin up steep ramps from the underbelly.
The pompous rapid language of French pre-teens, intermittent with laughter,
tells how unsettled they are in their skins; how we all fit that
shame in one lifetime or another.
Our elbows touch point-to-point, inhaling and then out
love still molding and shaping its way onto blank canvas;
colors being chosen carefully, meticulous to a fault,
because some things cannot be erased.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Clutching at Straws 2/10
the relationship between magic and beauty building
until we collapse on the curved wooden bench,
golden slatted tree hearts carrying our weight,
facing Picabia’s transparencies; eyes twitching then closed.
You tumble at last with face pinned to the glass
admiring Duchamp’s chess set and his headiness
to give it all up for the game, moving pawns
through invisible patterns garnered in both minds,
ten steps ahead of time and space.
We emerge from the end of the tunnel into splintered light, its sudden lift
at once weary and heavy, pushing us down the escalator
through color blocked art we’d never witness. Descention brings
silence, no words equaling the imprints now in cells.
Our bodies part directions at the bottom.
I find you leaning over the rail outside the doors,
the glass towering above you, monolithic, and the fag
in your hand souring the air, the smoke pulls me closer.
I dream of suffocating the images, tweezing each color and form
from between sluiced gray matter with precision.
We curl our chests over together, watch relatives struggle
to push their fat, crippled kin up steep ramps from the underbelly.
The pompous rapid language of French pre-teens, intermittent with laughter,
tells how unsettled they are in their skins; how we all fit that
shame in one lifetime or another.
Our elbows touch point-to-point, inhaling and then out
love still molding and shaping its way onto blank canvas;
colors being chosen carefully, meticulous to a fault,
because some things cannot be erased.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by Clutching at Straws 2/10
Faltered Exchange Through the Doorway
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
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
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
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