Issue 10
Spring 2002
Harding Stedler
IN SKINS ALONE
In birthday suits,
they peek above ground
through wilted vines
to see if anyone is looking.
They yearn for freedom
to bask in noonday sun.
They ease their way
from bashfulness
into daylight,
uninhibited as I pass.
I sanction their coming of age
and stop,
part what's left of green
to give them full exposure.
Potatoes naked
are more convincing
than when wrapped in reflective foil.
TORMENT OF THUNDER-SLEEP
My dream state was supplanted
by thunder-sleep
when lightning pierced the stillness
and the summer storms passed through.
From lightning's first flash,
sleep was intermittent,
and I took to checking hour hands,
then waited for the dawn.
My restlessness writhed
against the night,
and I tossed in torment
to rumbling rhythms across the sky.
Despite their anger,
gods brought rain
to ease the parching
of the green.
So, not all was lost.
Today, I hear echoes
of that thunder, still.
A bit fatigued,
I reflect upon the trade-off.
CABBAGE POEM
You had the knack of paring away,
always insisting I remove those frilly leaves
and get to the heart of it.
Leaf after leaf, I removed the excess
and the cabbage came clean.
You said, the flavor was in the center.
And so it was with poems.
Too much excess baggage--
bones needing stripped of verbiage.
You taught me to wield
a merciless scalpel
and not to fear reduction,
to be skeletal.
Sometimes less is more.
You taught me to make
the tastiest slaw
I ever ate.