Toujours
(always)
A second skin inside my skin
still touches you, holds
the lost language of your tongue,
still utters jewels of love.
Light remembers everything--
the newly ripened sunrise
we saw through stained glass,
round, golden glow of street lamps
above us while we walked
hour after hour, our hands
brushing in flight…
I envision the gray clouds
that drifted in your brown eyes
when you spoke of the war,
your capture and torture by Nazis,
how they seared both corneas,
crucified your spirit.
I hear the breathy embrace
of baritone endearments,
see how you pressed your index fingers
together in the shape of a steeple
when you listened to Concerto D’Aranquez,
your craggy face transformed--
first rapture I’d ever seen.
My fingertips remember the valley
that dipped at your clavicle,
fresh white scent of your shirt,
three buttons undone so I could rest
my cheek on your chest,
feel your weathered skin,
listen to your heart, a fist
beating against our inevitable
adieu.
Joe
Mornings, I like to walk to Mad Jacks
for a cup of joe. I call it that
because my father always did, and I imagine
him somewhere in war-torn France…
green army helmet unbuckled under his chin
one rationed cigarette, probably a Camel
unlit, hanging from his lips.
His lean body sprawls in a small metal chair
at a sidewalk café where he orders
Joe, noir, s’il vous plait. And Odette
the bleach blond waitress he gave nylons to
brings cream and sugar anyway.
I only get out for joe on Thursdays now--
when the hospice nurse comes to bathe Dad.
I slug it down fast and hot, hurry back
before he asks where I am
which he does all the time, unless he can see me
or reach out with one thin, blue-veined hand
touch whatever part of me is closest.
Then I brush wisps of white hair back
onto his balding head, crank up the bed
and fix him a scotch on the rocks—tonic
to help him forget he’s stuck in a hospital bed
in our living room instead of some swanky hotel lobby
in San Francisco.
Yesterday, he spilled the scotch all over
his blue cotton nightshirt. As I mopped it up
changed his clothes, he whimpered, Stupid old man!
I held his stubbly face in my hands
could only think to say, How ‘bout a cup of joe instead?
He nodded, so I brewed a fresh pot
served it on a silver tray, noir.
He slurped a few sips, closed his eyes…
perhaps drifted back to that sidewalk café
watched Odette zig zag through the tables toward him
set the cream and sugar down
before she lit his cigarette.
Kate Aver Avraham is a published poet and children’s author. Her picture book What Will You Be, Sara Mee? came out in 2011 from Charlesbridge. Kate’s poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies. In 2010, she received the Celebration of the Muse chapbook award for her book Perhaps the Truth is Also Blue. Kate is the founder of Blue Moon Creations, a non-profit artistic endeavor to aid charities locally and globally. She is a native Santa Cruzan living by the sea she loves.
Next:
(always)
A second skin inside my skin
still touches you, holds
the lost language of your tongue,
still utters jewels of love.
Light remembers everything--
the newly ripened sunrise
we saw through stained glass,
round, golden glow of street lamps
above us while we walked
hour after hour, our hands
brushing in flight…
I envision the gray clouds
that drifted in your brown eyes
when you spoke of the war,
your capture and torture by Nazis,
how they seared both corneas,
crucified your spirit.
I hear the breathy embrace
of baritone endearments,
see how you pressed your index fingers
together in the shape of a steeple
when you listened to Concerto D’Aranquez,
your craggy face transformed--
first rapture I’d ever seen.
My fingertips remember the valley
that dipped at your clavicle,
fresh white scent of your shirt,
three buttons undone so I could rest
my cheek on your chest,
feel your weathered skin,
listen to your heart, a fist
beating against our inevitable
adieu.
Joe
Mornings, I like to walk to Mad Jacks
for a cup of joe. I call it that
because my father always did, and I imagine
him somewhere in war-torn France…
green army helmet unbuckled under his chin
one rationed cigarette, probably a Camel
unlit, hanging from his lips.
His lean body sprawls in a small metal chair
at a sidewalk café where he orders
Joe, noir, s’il vous plait. And Odette
the bleach blond waitress he gave nylons to
brings cream and sugar anyway.
I only get out for joe on Thursdays now--
when the hospice nurse comes to bathe Dad.
I slug it down fast and hot, hurry back
before he asks where I am
which he does all the time, unless he can see me
or reach out with one thin, blue-veined hand
touch whatever part of me is closest.
Then I brush wisps of white hair back
onto his balding head, crank up the bed
and fix him a scotch on the rocks—tonic
to help him forget he’s stuck in a hospital bed
in our living room instead of some swanky hotel lobby
in San Francisco.
Yesterday, he spilled the scotch all over
his blue cotton nightshirt. As I mopped it up
changed his clothes, he whimpered, Stupid old man!
I held his stubbly face in my hands
could only think to say, How ‘bout a cup of joe instead?
He nodded, so I brewed a fresh pot
served it on a silver tray, noir.
He slurped a few sips, closed his eyes…
perhaps drifted back to that sidewalk café
watched Odette zig zag through the tables toward him
set the cream and sugar down
before she lit his cigarette.
Kate Aver Avraham is a published poet and children’s author. Her picture book What Will You Be, Sara Mee? came out in 2011 from Charlesbridge. Kate’s poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies. In 2010, she received the Celebration of the Muse chapbook award for her book Perhaps the Truth is Also Blue. Kate is the founder of Blue Moon Creations, a non-profit artistic endeavor to aid charities locally and globally. She is a native Santa Cruzan living by the sea she loves.
Next: