A Page Out of My Night Book
Surely that’s the moon, burning through the shades.
Or is it a lantern carried by a small, gnarled hand?
That’s the furnace clicking on, or maybe gnomes
returning on their tiny mounts, swaying with drink.
Someone has torn this page, left it crumpled
on my nightstand, a paper fist threatening the dark.
I am swimming here among the bedclothes,
breathing every third stroke.
I have a rhythm going, and soon I’ll be out on the
sea.
Someone might be calling from shore,
or maybe that’s the wind.
How hollow it sounds, how far away.
Sometimes I think I could fly if only my arms
would spread wide as wings, my hair stream
around my shoulders as the air cradles me.
I rise above mountains, breathe in the vapor of clouds.
I stare with strange eyes at headlands and cliffs.
Tonight I believe I can see deep into the flesh of stone.
Sleep’s Secret Garden
In Sleep’s Secret Garden, my mother
grew spices and herbs, which she
brewed into tea whenever any of us
fell ill. My father’s eyes bothered him,
and he would sip a bitter green cup.
I suffered ear aches when I was small,
lost a plumb acting part to the mumps
and a chance to make the baseball team
to rubella, but I wouldn’t drink her tea,
even sweetened with honey,
even when she tried disguising it
in milkshakes or malts.
I was always stubborn, yet here I am,
alive and well after all this time.
I sneak into Sleep’s Secret Garden,
through the small door visible at twilight,
when mist rings the high hills.
I lie on the bedding plants, rubbing
my hands with basil or mint.
Sometimes I wander down to the pond
and stand there, very still, listening
for the voices of lost friends,
so many now, their gray forms
hovering just beyond my weakening sight.
The Closet of Reason
We locked her in The Closet of Reason,
but she climbed out the back and walked
all the way home. Of course it rained
because this summer it always rains,
and she thrilled to the thunder after lightning
lit up the sky. Just beyond the biggest puddle,
near the corner shop, she found a key
and a comb and a penny minted in a city
she had never seen. All night she climbed
the Hill of Resistance, until her tendons ached
and she rested on the Bench of Impunity.
We got worried when she didn’t answer
her phone. Two of us ran out into the rain,
two of us stayed put. We had heard the noises
of cows and goats, we had seen the effects
of ducks floating on flooded streets.
While our network was vast,
our operatives were foolish amateurs,
recruited from the Island of Useless Men.
We will find her when she wants to be found,
which may be on Tuesday, or maybe on
The Day of Reckoning. She left a message.
The house is burning, but we have no idea,
despite her advice, where to hide the curtains or the car.
Steve Klepetar lives in the Shire (Berkshire County, in Massachusetts, that is). His work has appeared widely and has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. He is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Family Reunion and The Li Bo Poems.
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