2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 7

"What a Soul Is"

December, a weekday.
The snow falls.
It's a perfect winter storm.
Early dismissal comes
crackling from ancient speakers —
hundreds of children escape,
backpacks bumping.

Twelve degrees Fahrenheit and
Molly curls
into a half–moon.
She's warming on the bed —
pink–nosed, dazed and voluptuous
with tuna breath.
Her slight snore
swells in front of me;
all she needs in the world she has.

And me,
I know more about fear and dread
than I ever imagined;
I'm confused about God.
The iron clad kettle whistles
from the kitchen.

Still, I stare from the window while
the little boy from next door
jumps into a snowbank.
His snowsuit is as bold as a red sailboat.

The long streets are still
in the half–light of dusk,
but, in all of us, I know —
an envelope stuffed with
words and pictures.

"Kissing the Rise on Your Throat"

I want to kiss that rise on your throat,
the pronounced larynx that
creates your voice
so rough and disparate,
like a ride
on Kitzbuhel's cobblestone streets.
You drop your songs like pennies
on a sidewalk doused
in the perfect kind of rain
that I hope for on Sunday afternoon,
tangled in crisp sheets,
exploring you like a complicated song.