Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Aleathia Drehmer

“The River

for Gail

I question the worth

of my character

in this moment,

attempting to find some clue,

a common ground

to the mystery of my charm

as my face takes on

mixed emotions rapidly,

animated in graceful

but stilted movements.

And he tells me

quite frankly,

with mouth’s edge

curled upward,

that all women are crazy.

And somehow men find

what they need amidst

the chaotic flow

of ever revolving faces

worn without remorse

to find the gentleness and grace

that touches them

floating in the river.


“Hungry Ghosts”

We are full

of hungry ghosts and

long hours divided

into silence,


and prostrations

to drive them out.


levitate above trees

parallel to the earth,

our feet buried in deep

to feel the transfer

of pure electricity.

We gather their treasures

with an unknowing greed,

eyes shifting sideways

watching and coveting,

as if we have found

something worth hiding.

Reticent hands

dig into loam,

moist and intoxicated

with recycled life

quick and with precision.

We lay on the ground in it.

Our lungs fill but stay empty.

Secrets are pushed in knolls

of shaming trees,

tucked under dark roots

lifting upward from burgeoning

rock formations and time,

until we no longer

feel the weight

of our hunger.


"Atmospheric Pressure"

Cold clutches her,

breath visible

from nostrils and mouth.

She pats her chest

as if this will equalize

the atmosphere moving

inside her,

the air steeling her,

the sound of rebirth

in this game of ball

played with five brothers

and a father,

whose face speaks

to his offspring

of light and knowing

wrapped around each of them.

Their unseen boundaries

of victory

evident in the ticking,

coming from chests

synchronized and loud;

something born unto them,

an extra machine

with a perfectly calculated

compass, affixed to the apex

pointing them upward

and outward.



The cat curls

into the crook

of my writing arm,

his breathing a

delicate whisper.

He still hasn’t found

the bravado of his voice.

The rise/fall of

his body slowly

tries to lull me

to sleep with the

pen in my hand.

Through the window,

reclined in dying light

of a gray afternoon,

I see beginnings

of buds on trees

pushing their way

from the core.

Squirrels dance,

leaping branch to branch,

tails high in the air,

chattering loudly and

twitching like old men

with Tourette’s,

in attempts to start

the mating season early.

The sounds of my family

spread out in separate rooms,

the bleeping of video games,

the turning of pages

with a soft voice

telling a story of her own


makes me smile.

Each of us taking comfort

in time spent alone

speaks to me solidly,

without words,

whispering in ears that

we have found

some peace in this world.

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