Tidal Flow

"Isolated, solitary, men are
always outside, needing
nothing more urgently
than to be inside,
to feel warmth,
the tidal flow"
Cicilia Vicuna

Circe knew it on the shores
of Aiaia, that island of open
vowels, of air, and so
she penned them in the mud
they loved, up to their pink
knees, groveling and at last
filled up, forgetful of their
father's names.

Sometimes, centered in black
ocean we call night
I wake and feel
a presence
something moving like a wind
or soft mist
around my face
before I recall who
I was in light
or even try to rise and gain
my balance
and my hands, sense
salt air, pitch and roll
of sea, here far inland
on a prairie where I live
near the iron core of myself.

Then I take a handful of flesh
remember my urge to be
inside, to feel
rhythmic tidal flow
to smell your hair, breathe
in its thickness.
Teach me a less clumsy way
to touch, take me to sea
again. Could I have forgotten
how sweet this crazy rush
of waves, how gorgeous
this drowning?
Emersion in your whirlpools
your gypsy wild dizzy
violins, moaning the third
breathless rising from such
an animal mouth dying bound
to the mast, listening panting
to your passion songs touching
mine, every toe and finger,
every tongue whispering
licking forgetting every voice
every hand offering every
name that isn't yours.

Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has appeared in many journals, including GHOTI, Snakeskin, New Works Review, and others. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize the past three years.

Email: Steve Klepetar

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