Aleathia Drehmer

four poems

Et Tu?

Her long slender arm is a tanned perfection
extending from the shoulder length blonde hair
dappled in highlights from unnatural sun;
delicate fingers tipped in French manicure
run through the metro-sexual haircut
of her teenaged boyfriend.

She is showing off her abilities to please
in front of his brother.
He recognizes her polyandrous system
as he stares, eyes on her like a fox
from behind his coke glass, ice sliding
around his lips, freezing his skin.

His jealousy melts into envy with imperceptible lines
thinly cloaked by familia and brotherhood.
His body trembles, wishing her hand on him, instead.

How easily the blade could pierce close flesh.

I once dreamed of Bob Dylan

In a treehouse, one walled
and built from looking glass,
the old man spoke to me; leaves
colored like immanent death

drifted and swirled, their reflection
a knowing torture, and he said blankly,
“You must walk the highway
to get to the by-way.”

I blinked twice, flashing sea stones
at his face (cracked, dried mud in noon sun)
as he pointed to the lines on mine
that had not been written yet.

Vestige

I am a flesh accordion
being put away for the night
as cold water seeps over and under
my feet simultaneously. It is mercury.
I rise up, levitate, as if a cheap trick
at the magician’s fingers.

I am a river bottom vestige
when my body quietly slips
beneath a watery sky,
from ink to ink, writing an epitaph
on the rocks with my knees
about a life not yet lived.
.

Magic To Be Found

for Edward

“I only really feel alive when I’m on the poem,”
he tells me,
“the rest of the time I’m waiting to write.”

I think about how
words take over me,
seduce me until I am
writhing in a puddle
on the floor, people
walking passed me
indifferent to my pain.

“I groan and hold my head,
can feel them between my lungs,” he says.

And I picture him
sitting there tortured,
with anguish dripping
from his face, onto his
chest, hand clutching
the place where the
words claw their way out.

“The pen can’t move fast enough
to take away the knife,” I tell him,
through wires and light,
wondering if the blood
on my blade
is his.

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