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Sunday, June 10, 2012

Two Poems by Zachary Kluckman

Two Poems by Zachary Kluckman

Forgiveness is a Small Boat

You were         almost
A silk-worms’ favorite leaf
Once

Almost             delicate

Slender wristed
As the throat of those orchids
We talked about planting at Christmas

But you could never catch rain
That’s how I knew we were doomed

The heart is a drunken architect
Full of blue prints          and sky scrapers
No one understands his designs

When you danced naked
Through the tawdry office of my mind
Upsetting the furniture
Teaching the windows
                        to sing like wine glasses
At Hollywood weddings

You were the rain

All throaty laughs and light touches

You were the leaves    dancing over concrete in fall
Red eyed and wicked
Waiting for someone to jump in

I was a leaf gatherer
Chasing these widows of spring

Pressing lovers into bed sheets
The way maple folds against the spine
Of old journals  biting at the bindings

A canvas topped Samson
Loose in the city           assaulting bookstores
With the jawbone of an ass

Stolen from a farmer’s field
Freeing poems trapped like hungry birds
In the back of old books

You were         almost              delicate
I was rebellious, a bee in the window
Your eyes could never quite close

Somewhere in Albuquerque there is a church
That remembers the prayers of our feet

In that church there is a closet
Where we almost committed a sin of impatience
A broom that has seen you naked

And a flowerbed where I buried our vows
When you weren’t looking

As this earth is my witness
You were the rain

I have stood naked inside of you

Surprised by your violence

The Sun is a Bug on the Windshield

…the sunset
stays in my windows.
I have trapped it there

with a brush
painting each color’s portrait

with the eager optimism
of a sinner
seeking salvation,

with the quick hands
of a junkie,

convinced that rainbows are prisons.

Water based prisms
making marionette’s of the spectrum.
Colors suspended

by their own lack of faith,

with the skepticism
of a father, with no home
for his children

convinced the sky
has slit its wrists,
opened the veins in a display

meant for the sun.

A mean ex-lover
whose affairs with the trees
gave birth to the shadows

where my mother was born,

sculpting mud for a son
she named carelessly

under the bright,
melancholy suicide of dusk.

Author's Bio: Zachary Kluckman is the Spoken Word Editor for Pedestal Magazine, Director of the Albuquerque Slam Poet Laureate Program and a regional director for the 100 Thousand Poets for Change movement. His poetry appears in print and over 500 radio stations worldwide. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his recent publications include The New York Quarterly, Memoir (and) and Cutthroat among others. When he is not untangling string cheese, Kluckman is hard at work on a new manuscript titled “Those Dust Shouldered Ghosts”.

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