Other Poems by:

Beth Stolar Kehayes


a small woman only in panties 

bent over a water spigot 

in the middle of winter while 

the muscled played ice hockey with brooms 

in a flooded frozen parking lot 


their bare chests defy subzero temps 

in dragon steam snorts

the weakness of my armor 

seeing her barefoot in snow 

with breasts dangling 

while I sit in the back of a hot and stuffy van 


watching days begin with night 

and night fill afternoons 

in cinderblock houses amid plumes 

of smoke rising into the dark

where the headless horseman flees the kiosk 

to get to the officer’s club to drink 


and smoke, to feel the warmth of a woman 

disguised as a tank and get

drunk on vodka and red lipped beauties

wearing stiletto heels 

as we collapse from camaraderie, European cigarettes,

tea and plunging into bowls of hot solyanka


observing the laws of latitude and perambulators 

with babies bouncing over ice

while we sit on park swings

marveling at minks that drape to ankles

to touch black tinged snow.


He did not arrive 

in a basket between reeds. 

In Judean dirt he sat 

thundering purrs, 

an “M” of grey over his eyes. 

A background of dull houses 

he wandered 40 days 

to stray 

between a neighbor’s barn 

and her bed.  

Soot covering paws, he grins 

reminding me of the first boyfriend, 

in slinky stride with a look that says, 

“I’m going to do whatever I want tonight anyway.” 

And off he goes. Then comes back 

to lick your hand with sandpaper 

feeling grateful in a pang of 

sick and twisted sentiment. 

The tongue that just wrestled gristle off a mouse 

he stalked all day in between lust. 

Comes back purring 

after leaving entrails and head. 

Always will. 

He jumps onto the bed  

adjusting an ankle to accommodate his whiskers.

His motor keeping you awake

when you ache for silence.


Bequeathed a dictionary still in use, 

fragments of sustenance 

among broken words in 

ancient texts. 

I looked through a window 

with your bastion of soul, 

pennon heralded into sunset 

of open palms, as tongues curl truth. 

Tendrils of lips’ arc. Absorbs the

purr, oxblood desire in embrace. 

Struggle against the fog 

gracing loss

in the chimera of our bed. 

In joy lift ourselves, the hips earth’s orbit. 

In Montreal the wavering glass, 

train’s snake squiggling,

life’s fullness as chrome reflects glazed eyes,

pointed toes with heels make me oblong. 

And you the tracks, the shiny rails

where an engine purrs. 

A block of pulse 

at Bonaventure where we grab our bags

and depart between sliding glass doors into rain.


Beth Stolar Kehayes, USA, born and raised in northern Ohio, holds a Bachelor of Fine Arts 
degree from The College of New Jersey. Her poetry has been featured in a variety of 
publications including Flutter, Sage of Consciousness and Taborri Press. Forthcoming 
publications include Autumn Sky and Chaotic Dreams. 

**Copyright 2007 Beth Stolar Kehayes, all rights reserved Send us your comments on this article
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