Across this continent of snow I hear
my mother’s voice, faint and distant, scratching
against my door:
-
“cold” she murmurs, “chilly
for New York, and the wind, oh the wind…”
changing wind and swirling snow, eidolon
rising from the dark
in Saint Cloud air still as glass and
cold, ten below in useless morning sun, knife
blade breaths and bony
fingers of oak, we are strung
across trees, hanging in branches, festive
and fat as hens in red coats and blue, our fog
breath tinsel thin around faces blurry with tears
oh mother, where have you left your throat,
that shofar of flesh? Whose name do you sing
when stars linger, arrowheads of ice in winter sky?
Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared worldwide, in such journals as Boston Literary Magazine, Deep Water, Expound, The Muse: India, Red River Review, Snakeskin, Voices Israel, Ygdrasil, and many others. Several of his poems have been nominated for \Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize (including three in 2015). Recent collections include Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications, 2013), My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press, 2013) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).
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