by Steve Klepetar
Nets and Night
This must be what they mean
by nets and night
how boats rock as tide pulls out
how voices flicker and carry
in shimmering pools
how eagles wait for salmon
on the hungry shore.
This must be the body’s
time, the time of salt and wind,
the way waiting takes shape—
indigo shadows, and ice
white falls tumbling into sea,
the way whale song lubricates air
and earth feels ancient as breath
and streams and rain and pebbly shore.
“Everybody who’s anybody longs to be a tree—or ride one, hair blown to froth.”
A man turns to see his small son dangling
from the branches of a bay tree. Gravity
tugs at the boy, but he grins from his perch,
spearhead leaves framing a moon-pale face.
Rider in that green spray, he leans
into wind as roots tear from grasping earth.
He is cloud-bourn, racing across summer
sky, scattering a flight of crows
whose harsh cries rake all earthbound ears.
Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared worldwide, in such journals as Boston Literary Magazine, Deep Water, Expound, The Muse: India, Red River Review, Snakeskin, Voices Israel, Ygdrasil, and many others. Several of his poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize (including three in 2015). Recent collections include Speaking to the Field Mice (Sweatshoppe Publications), My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).