Featured Poet

What You Could See Watching Closer

Some peaches with golden flecks –
A man could be singing as he unties his robe 
( his fingers probe the double knot ).
He might choose a peach, the one with drops
bite it, hand it to her ( if she were there ).

The  woman could be sitting 
by the phone ( in the kitchen ) – in white,
white as the ceramic Venetian mask 
on the shelf ( its hollow eyes wide
when the phone rings), she might be 
thinking of the gold in his eyes, 

the milk of his hands in her wet hair,                   
her hands on his chest's shrunk buds. 
There could be still light behind one 
building ( a sky ablaze on the windowsill ). 
The woman would slice peaches into a blue bowl, 
the robe would fall,
the man would kiss 
his song  on her tongue.

And if you watch closer, you could 

be the  man with unshaven cheeks,
the woman staring at her scarlet toenails,
the peach that waits for the second bite,
the phone that finally rings.

Ready

She plays dead so well to spare herself all tussles,
lies there in her forget-me-not dress,
arms crossed over breasts,
a smile-remain frozen up the mouth's corner.
She lies still, far off tides tickling
earsand, waits.

But, should a seagull rustle its wings across the pane,
she's set to rush and open  the window.

Nailpolished petals twitch on her toes
out of  buckled sandals.
Ready. 
That's why she is wearing that seadress, 
has cotton tips and toothbrush in her pocket.

Mediterranean Matinée

In the morning, I am sleepier than you,
maybe happier as you walk out of the room,
barefoot, and I cuddle in the warm shape
your body left. I hear you butcher
my song in choked hums, the chatter
of cups, then, I see you stand above me,
uncertain – Your smile hangs lanterns
from my eyelashes, softens my toenails,
and a sparrow perches on the red mane
of a horse, he gallops in shallow water –
the world within me widens, fills.

His Affair With Life

He seized  the girl in green shoes.
She arched her back
under a willow of water, 
a river's revolving course in Spring.
He watched her stretch
her hands, touch the orange tree's small suns –
they burned their fingers; nails reached
into porous peel, broke the membrane, 
dripped gold drops and seeds.

He rode the circuit of her belly, the curled navel,
paused at her domain of salt and currents, 
grasped her breasts where blood painted berries
while her breath filled his nostrils
with seaweed scent. 

Wading her eyes, he sank
into concentric circles
of smoke clouds over her forehead.

Do not turn away.


Lift her dress of ripe corn,
lift her dress of  red-sand rain,
plutonium and meteors,
of gardens crowded with armless statues
cracked by the first breeze.
Lift her dress smelling of  bleach
with discolored oracles peeping out of pockets,
her dress of water, reflections
of  roads in grass pecked by bluejays.

And           as you fingercomb her hair,
as one sun sinks 
and another rises in her eyes,
screw her          screw her from her first
to your last breath.

The Pause

Between wake and sleep I hum
and haw like a rising fountain 
when it arches and waterhugs the air

my circular body holds me at bay
in cumuli of drops where we are visible
and elusive in sprayed forms

eyes guide my hands, 
my hands head to            eyes
rest in a bowl of pulverized syllables

I dangle on the edge of glass skin
fall with water thumps in my ears
as sleep's liquid eye smoothes
last ripples on the surface

I pause         I go

Next - Lisa Katz
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