Skip to main content

quiet here in the dark

Michael  McNeilley       

wishing I had something to
say to you
that something had happened I
could relate
some thing you would find interesting if
you were here
but nothing keeps happening in almost
fall still
you sit in my head waiting or
I think this
since I never know when you
will appear
but you always do eventually
unexpectedly
and I find I remember things
about you
things I do not know though it is nice
to think of them
and I go back to cutting up onions
making coffee
it occurs to me to smoke but I light
the filter
that burned taste like the one firemen
have always
with them you can remember tastes
you know
like I remember you standing naked
in my bathroom
you or your shadow at the window
the light
a halo through your hair watching
the moon and
as you can taste perfume if you get
close enough
you can taste sweat if the air
is still enough
from across the room across
years you
can know from what is spoken
what remains
unspoken you can try to put these
things away
but for me closing my eyes is
better to let
these things flow over me like standing
in warm summer
rain the cold only later when the
wind rises

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Low

It's not happiness, but something else; waiting for the light to change; a bakery. It's a lake. It emerges from darkness into the next day surrounded by pines. There's a couple. It's a living room. The upholstery is yellow and the furniture is walnut. They used to lie down on the carpet between the sofa and the coffee table, after the guests had left. The cups and saucers were still. Their memories of everything that occurred took place with the other's face as a backdrop and sometimes the air was grainy like a movie about evening, and sometimes there was an ending in the air that looked like a scene from a different beginning, in which they are walking. It took place alongside a scene in which one of them looks up at a brown rooftop early in March. The ground hadn't softened. One walked in front of the other breathing. The other saw a small house as they passed and breathed. The reflections in the windows made them hear the sounds on th...

Phrases for Public Speakers at Sea

by M. B. Powell We ought, first of all, to note her oceanic eyes flecked with sea wrack. And we should pause to consider the wavy wilderness of her damp hair. I will not dwell on her cheeks ruddy under my thumbstrokes. I will not attempt to explain the shapely abalone shells of her ears. I wish to call your attention to the cunning animal of her mouth, muscular. I wish to say something about the mollusky dark language of her kisses. I am obliged to mention her sudden breasts, breaching, rhythmic. And I am perfectly astounded at her finger charting my lips round her nipple. Here, in this connection, let us notice her nipple against the roof of my mouth. Here, in passing, let us observe ...

The Gift

The day my mother dropped a net of oranges on the kitchen table and the net broke and oranges rolled and we snatched them, my brother and I, peeled back the skin and bit deep to make the juice explode with our laughter, and my father spun one orange in his palm and said quietly, "This was Christmas, 1938," said it without bitterness or anger, just observing his life from far away, this tiny world cupped in one palm, I learned I had no way to comprehend an orange. Sean Lause Beloit Poetry Journal Winter 2008/9