To be continued . . .


Four a.m. and I'm awake
in faint green light, aware of a little
chill, a knuckle of pain radiating from under
my left shoulder. Last time this happened
I nearly bent a window frame scrambling
out along the thin pole of moon
frozen to oak leaves and buried grass
in my front yard. It's amazing
really, at my age, how well I climb
considering the cold, slippery surface
I clung to, shimmying half-naked
like a fireman caught in rewind
to the aching disk of moon.
I was a shadow, melted and absorbed
in her mother-of-pearl embrace.
But now the sky is dark and silent
the way appears down through the tunnel
of my self. I can smell the bricks
of my old neighborhood-chalky, acrid red
crisscrossed with white cement, taste subtle
salt-blood pulsing in my heaving
throat shadows fling stones
at me, I'm really scared, because some
hit and I can't see
who is doing this. I am inflamed
with outrage this is America I think you can't
call me dirty Jew my fists clenched and useless
muddy with sweat tears roaring in the hail
of so many rocks I am small, I am so
small and hiding in a bush wrapped tight in it's painful leaves

by Steve Klepetar


© 1998 Kaleidoscope

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Last update: 1 July 1998

URL: http://leo.stcloudstate.edu/kaleidoscope/volume8/continued.html


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