Darkness
and Strange Sounds
Right now I hear the music
of a hundred crows.
They have risen from the pines
almost blackening the sky.
Last year when this happened,
I ducked under the covers,
put a pillow on my head.
I felt like I was five years old,
terrified of darkness and strange
sounds.
When the crows were gone,
I climbed out of bed,
went to the kitchen to cook a meal.
I rinsed the lettuce,
sliced a scallion and mushrooms,
tomato, avocado, beets.
I took my pills and let the water
boil.
Outside the trees were empty,
branches bare and shaking in the cold
wind.
Eulogy
“My friend without eyes sits in the rain
smiling
With a nest of salt in his hand”
W. S. Merwin
My friend has turned to rock, to salt.
He won’t talk to me anymore.
His voice has become a roar
or a whisper on the wind.
His feet are rooted in the soil.
My friend is a hero in a Greek myth,
one who has been transformed
by a loathsome god.
My friend could be a sea bird
glimpsed from the deck of a tourist
boat
sailing to the island where gannets
nest.
He could be a mountain goat or stag,
breaking for cover near the riverbank.
He sits in the rain for a thousand years.
His body crumbles slowly into dust and
ash.
My friend is a river, the blood of this
land,
his hard body washed empty and clean as
prayer.
An Old Skin
Waking
up is a parachute jump from dreams.
Tomas
Transtromer
Or a long climb down a mountain,
with mist clinging to the cliffs.
How cold It feels as you step
over pebbles and roots,
leaning forward as the footing
gets worse. Sometimes waking
can be a leap into a new skin,
or an easy slide into an old one
left hanging by the fire
in case someone needs to get away.
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.
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