Poetry: Richard Krawiec
smell the mold
remember his downy face
cry on the sidewalk
refuse to move
sit by the phone
unplug the phone
chug wine
stare out the window
call in sick
write a poem
throw it away
spit in the barrel
get stoned
walk on water
slice off foreskins
pluck out an eye
My son keeps on rocking
in the free world with Neil
Young he races past the couch
slams into the closet door
spins and runs across the living
room to dive onto the futon
he stands to display a series
of convulsive jerks as if
electric currents attack
his limbs in random patterns
the uncontrolled arrhythmic
spasms only a white five-year-old
boy could conceive
his release is my salvation
last night he told me he never
wanted to sleep again he barricaded
his room with light the three-bulb
overhead the carousel horse lamp
the beams of four flashlights he is sick
of shadows wants no more dreams
of monsters who lurk outside
his vision unseen undefined
as intangible as his mother’s illness
which he cannot touch or identify
and so finds impossible to banish
His brother toddles into the room bouncing
his butt to the beat in the air
he yells hey thrusts his arms
high and falls hard onto the rug
he smiles and beckons with his hands
how many invitations do I need
I push aside the texts on incest
and depression rise shake my own
butt in the air yell hey slam
into the wall race back and forth
across the room grip and haul
both boys upward pull them close
kiss their faces with fierce insistence
the shades are up the lights on
anyone passing might look in
it matters that they see us
that they know
we whirl about the room
three as one dancing singing
rocking our own way
to a world we would like
once again
to be free
You stood on the stool
so you could reach down
cradle my face up to yours;
we slow-danced to Van Morrison
‘Have I told you lately
that I love you?’
You above, pressing down,
me yearning, always this
pressing and yearning.
Once I closed your eyes
circled you slowly, touched
gently with my tongue the places
you wouldn’t anticipate
I lifted you to the bed,
pressed into your yearning,
you tossed your hair
a storm of disarray
then kissed and laughed
your way down my body.
I stroked and glided
your arms, stomach, legs
after we tucked our feet
beneath the covers,
drank wine, pecked
tortellini, salad,
each others’ lips.
What is this we have,
where nothing is more loving
than anything else – a kiss,
a phone call, the flash of eyes
at the market, feather-slip
of hand on back
lips on neck?
They say the spirit yearns
to God, or the universe, longs
to join the cosmic symphony.
When we press and yearn
we are already there,
absorbing, dispersing, singing
What better home
could we possibly find?