Three Sublime Poems by Steve Klepetar

 

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.

Steve Klepetar is waiting out the winter and the pandemic in Berkshire County, Massachusetts.