Three Poems by Steve Klepetar

 

Simple Tastes

 

…my grandfather used to say he was a simple man with simple tastes: 

“All I need is a little milk from a goat that has been fed for a month on wild green pears.”

 

— The Idiot: A Novel by Elif Batuman

 

All I need is a sign written in moonlight across the star-filled sky,

and your voice rising from the sea.

I need a cloak woven from butterfly wings and a mermaid’s kiss.

I need wine from a country lost long ago among cliffs and ice.

A simple man, I need butter from the first-born calf of a sacred bull.

I need bread baked from wheat grown in the gardens of the sky.

All I really want is a dry place to sleep.

I need nothing more than cheese flavored with clover and spice.

I need a blanket and a table and a gallon of olive oil.

When the wind howls, I need four strong walls, a tower, and three colors of thread.

I need a place to sit, a basket in which to gather my thoughts, someone to write down my words.

I need water from a glacial lake and pumpkins grown in black soil.

I need a cave with crystal walls, a pair of hiking boots, a stick carved with animal heads.

When I was born, I needed a doctor to predict my future, how small I would be and slow.

I needed the wind and rain and a supply of tiger milk.

Now all I need is a small room and a week of quiet days to complete my shopping list.

 

 

I Don’t Want to Be Speaker of the House

 

Though I was born in Shanghai, 

and naturalized in Brooklyn,

I’m eligible I suppose, 

but if the President and VP 

were unable to serve, 

they’d have to skip over me,

so what’s the point? 

I don’t want to be a test pilot 

or an astronaut, a race car driver, 

a deep sea diver or a circus clown. 

I wouldn’t enjoy accounting 

or carpentry or working 

on an organic farm. 

Actuarial work might 

actually be fun, all that data 

pointing to outcomes,

though ultimately 

those are all the same. 

They end with bones and dust. 

It might be good to work 

at a supermarket, gathering 

carts in a long train, 

shoving them into the store 

from their little stalls in the parking lot. 

I guess it’s simple work I like. 

Pushing things that roll, wearing 

work gloves to keep blisters at bay.

 

 

Doubt and Drones

 

The air was filled with doubt 

and drones. 

Each one moaned a different song,

some about love, 

some about war or summer’s end. 

 

The two of us whistled 

in the dark, 

our lips dry and chapped, 

so every note broke 

against our teeth. Your mother

 

emerged again, red hair blazing 

in lamplight, 

eyes hungry and wild. 

You stilled her voice, 

lay her down on the bed of stone.

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.