Three Superb Poems by Steve Klepetar

 

A Night of Peace

 

Alone, with her loaf of bread in a white paper bag, 

and the newspaper tucked under her arm, she wanders 

toward the park. She will sit near the statue 

of the hero on his battle horse, nibble heels, 

read headlines for a while. 

This never happened, at least not that I recall, 

that my mother bought the paper and the bread. 

So it must have been my father, 

and I had to be there with him to remember this, 

how he bought me a comic book and laughed 

because his fat paper cost only a nickel, 

while my thin comic cost a dime. 

By the time we thought it was safe to go home, 

we’d eaten half the loaf, so we stopped 

to buy another at the bakery on 5^th. 

By then my mother should be awake, and maybe 

if she had napped well, there’d be a night of peace, 

or at least a night of quiet as we slipped into a silence of our own.

 

 

Mirage

 

We walked all day, past meadows 

and a silver pond, the road curving 

again and again as we rose 

up the mountain, then descended 

into the valley, where the river 

splashed over its banks. 

If you saw us that day, we were 

the man and the woman in the poem 

about distance and sleep.

We had no suitcase, that was a lie. 

Our hands were empty, and we stopped 

to eat what we carried in our packs, 

crackers and jerky and bundles of fruit. 

You might have thought we were on the run, 

maybe outlaws or migrants looking 

for a place to cross. You might have wondered 

how far we could go at our age, 

and you might have pitied our slow pace. 

But really, you passed us time and time again, 

as if we were a mirage conjured by the summer heat,

one foot after the other, all the way down into your dreams.

 

 

A New Religion

 

I invent one where the afterlife is a vast library, 

every book ever written, enough copies for anyone 

who wants to read. You can learn about Willie Mays 

or The Investiture Controversy, get the inside scoop

on Emily Dickinson’s secret life or read about 

the reproduction of seals. The books keep coming, 

pumped up from earth, where the writing 

never stops. Like real books? You’ve got it, 

with the feel and smell of paper, but if you prefer 

e-books, you’ve got that too, or audible books or films. 

There are infinite comfortable spaces for reading alone, 

and cozey conference rooms for book clubs or dialogue. 

The coffee bar serves croissants and baguettes.

You glide up and down the floors on escalators 

that run on air. Everyone gets in, there’s not much 

judgement, but if you were really bad, you have to read 

only the thorniest books for the first thousand years. 

Before you get to read any fiction, you must hack

your way through The Organon, and then you only 

get to read Bulwer-Lytton for a thousand more. 

Chastened and improved, you can go on to Harry Potter 

or James Bond, Virginia Woolf or Lisbeth Salander, 

whatever you wish, now that you’re cleansed and free of sin.

Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. His work has appeared widely in the U.S. and around the world, and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.