You can also visit my poetry website: kencraftpoetry.
The Builder at Work
It’s the first moments after she leaves
that the house feels emptiest, a gutted
gourd still damp with human voice,
laughter, touch. In her wake, a lingering
scent of Chanel, a thinning of familiar.
I inhale. My ribs rise. I try holding air
until my chest aches with her, but she
fades to the rafters, presses through pine-
paneled knots and seams, seeks cloud
and star, leaving me hostage to myself.
I have to busy this hand and build:
grip the warm hammer handle,
drive despair from noisy nail heads,
ignore the blueprints of pity. I am
anomaly—the builder who marks
four walls that would measure him.
(first appeared in Angle Journal of English Poetry, spring/summer issue, 2015)
Three is the loneliest number on a clock
when the night can’t save you.
No doubt it is the constellated tug,
a conspiracy of stars, the silent, primal
voice that whispers the uselessness,
that grinds greater gears,
that mocks the hubris of careful plans,
set alarms. Every blanketed life around you
sleeps safe and happy and secure
like nothing can touch them, like change
has made its exception, named it you,
and passed finally over the frosted roof.
(first appeared in Amethyst Arsenic 3.1)
The Death of Narcissus
October, and the glen
resounds with want,
wind, yellow rain of birch leaves.
The face and body wander,
driven by disdain,
downhill where earth
hold their breath.
From a distance, silver
eye lashed by dying buttonbush.
At its flanks
the warmth of moss
pressing palms and knees.
Hemlock, sky, clouds
above and again in the depths
frame first the face,
then two deltoids of desire
tensing as he leans hard
over the stillness of self,
sensing a virgin desire.
Lowering his lips, he
feels the coolness of this first
kiss, never noticing the shadow
his beauty casts
over these violated waters.
(first appeared in The Silver Birch Press website, 29 October 2014)