All poems posted on this page are written and copyrighted by
S. Thomas Summers.
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A Fall from Grace
he removes its head or slices
a thin line up its belly, spilling
blood and water. He lodges
his thumb deep in its throat,
between gills – clenches
his fist around the skull.
Jagged tool, a spoon with teeth
tares shimmer from flesh:
a rainbow ripped from the soft
air that lingers after morning storms.
The tail curls toward the sun. Lidless
eyes, still moist, leak disbelief.
This is death. Gills flare like butterflies
fanning purple wings. I ask
if it hurts. Grandpa says
Little bit, just a little bit.
The Air that Veils My Skin
for my son
We stretch on our backs in the house’s
shadow, connecting clouds with our eyes –
numbered dots in a coloring book.
Bunny tails, Daddy. They look like bunny tales.
Wind ushers this cotton beyond our sight,
beyond the tall oaks - attentive as playground
parents. I roll the stillness into a small
ball to play with when I’m old: the cool
grass, the blue jay filching pine needles
from the gutter, the galaxies teetering
on the tip of your nose. For now, all I need
is the air that veils my skin – it reminds
me of your breath, why my lungs taste an afternoon.
Reading Mr. Wright
for J.W.
You call me at silent
times: as the peach cobbler
bakes in the oven, after leaves
have been herded into piles
and I’ve settle on the front
stoop to watch October wither.
You lead me through stalks
of grass heavy with rain - white
ponies consider my breath, pity
the shallow work of my lungs.
Elder trees slip behind a night
thick as flesh. Their buds
will sleep beyond the dawn.
No flower will sweeten the air
with its perfume. Sparrows pluck
gray hairs from my scalp, insulate
their nests with my age. For so long,
I thought I was eternal but you’ve
dipped my heart beneath the cold river.
Perhaps a beautiful woman will
look from her window and cry.