Three Poems by Steve Klepetar

 

What the Hypnotist Said

He told me to picture a stairway in fog,  

each step whispering under my feet.  

The railing gleamed with the breath of sleep,  

and the air buzzed with invisible bees.

He said I was walking toward myself.

I asked “Which self?”

but the hallway kept folding in waves.  

His eyes turned into clocks that clicked,  

their hands sweeping the dust of old hours.

He said I’d forget the meaning of rain,  

but remember its scent on the skin of fruit. 

I’d forget the names of the living and dead,  

but recall a low hum behind the walls.

I asked if time could unwind its thread,  

if sorrow was just a loop we replay.  

The lamps flickered once, maybe twice,  

and light pooled around my small shoes.

When I woke, the chair beside me was bare,  

my palms smelled faintly of cinnamon.  

Outside, fog folded back into itself,  

and bees went still in their endless hum.

How to Talk to Death When It Comes Around

Don’t open the door too quickly.

Let it knock once, maybe twice,

until the sound softens like rain.

Offer tea. Death likes small courtesies—

a chipped cup, the steam rising

between your hands.

Don’t mention the others. Death recalls

every face, every sigh, the way

you remember songs from childhood.

Ask instead about the road,

how it bends around fog,

how the stars fall into its dust.

Death may smile, or something like it,

a shifting of the air. You’ll see

its long coat shimmer with stories.

Listen. That’s your work now.

Not to beg or barter,

but to nod, as if you finally understand.

When it stands to leave, don’t follow.

Just wave from the porch,

your breath a small cloud in the dark.

The Goat Who Lives on the Moon

She chews on shadows and silver weeds,

bleats softly to the stars,

her breath a mist of broken lullabies.

Some say she was banished for stubbornness,

for eating the hems of angel robes,

for laughing at gravity’s solemn face.

Her horns catch dreams

spun from the breath of travelers—

lost astronauts, lovers who whisper into phones.

On certain nights, when the clouds part,

you can see her standing still as a thought

watching us stumble through our small hours.

She remembers the taste of rain,

the low music of bells at dusk,

the warm roughness of another’s hand.

Shee chews slowly, patiently,

turning our sorrow into milk,

our noise into silence, our prayers into light.

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.