I drink tea with spiders. There is never
enough milk. The spiders complain about
the heat, but I tell them to blow across
their cups or just have patience and wait.
On sunny days, birds glide overhead, apples
swell and hang heavy from trees. I can say
these truths in three languages,
the words inscribed on the inside of my skull.
This makes travel easier to many parts
of the world. Here’s what I’ve observed:
on rainy days, girls go to the movies.
They don’t go with boys or with their pets,
because they want to hear the film stars
snarl. The stars eat apples dropped from
the beaks of birds. They drink a tea brewed
from webs. They blow across their cups
to calm the howling pets. They have gold
flecked eyes and travel far, speaking tongues
of spice and flame. In darkness the girls spin
on their seats like small tornadoes in a glass jar.
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.