It’s so simple, this waiting
in a dark room, its air
perfumed with lilac and mold.
Every breath springs to your
chest like a white moth
flitting in a garden of ash.
Once there were sounds
of many voices, and silver
pictures flickering on the walls.
That was long ago in the days
of heat. We were carried off
by strong hands into rough cliffs,
where we learned a new set
of prayers. But now the walls
are painted over with signs.
One points to the road that runs
past this house, winding its way
to the city of our birth
with its traffic and children
and dogs skirting rubble and glass.
Another points inward to the ocean
of our blood. As our lungs fill
with the water of dreams, we touch
each other lightly, just before dawn.
Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared widely. His poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto and The Li Bo Poems, both from Flutter Press, and Family Reunion, forthcoming from Big Table Publishing.