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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
an “M” of grey over his eyes.
A background of dull houses
he wandered 40 days
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.
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
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
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
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