Slow Stitch Across a Widening Distance                                                                                        

 

And long is the season of longing,

And the thought is of onions

And the dream is of skin,

                                        its peeling and getting through

Spheres of influence, say, the quiet side of tracking

A man in orbit—

                                  the distant pitch of the tilt-a-whirl.

And the yawn vouches for a salty cheek,

And there is hushed,

And there is room for praise:

A space

            In the flesh-heavy universe

For simple injuries—days like layovers

 

Spent hanging in his sway,

Highways wracked with overgrowth, landscapes that say

Time to move on,

Only to be driven again;

      But,

There are momentary places for patience, whole planets

That can be left for looming

In the scrim of prairies, some wild chives and dry irises—

Cicatrices of name (       )—

Yes, the heart is a flood-plain, I remember

 

The planet said he wants no part—not to be held or behold

Now a tiny spectacle, a disturbance of water in the distance…..

 

And him and me and all the onions—

Cutting them to cover—

 

And that splashing in the background is his lover,

Learning now to swim.

Alec Hershman

Barnwood poetry mgazine