White Hands [poem] by George Eklund

How beautiful the distant doors
And your white hands
Upon my imaginary face,
Your breathing through the gauze of a flower.
The changing colors of a wall.

In the tangled fumes of the dusk
You can see the ricks of your girlhood.
It is so quiet at the edge of the flesh
An ocean of light receding
Into a thought,
The lights of freighters
Consumed at the horizon.

How lovely the lost script,
The seizure of the dew in its rebirth.
Our bodies lighten
Beneath the mask of the moon
And the universe awakens
At the tips of the fruit tree
On the lip of the storm,
Star to tiny star in the mind
Where no mother can reach.

 

Image of 1930s Switchboard Operator

Image by Matthew Parkes

George Eklund’s work has has appeared in ABZ, The American Poetry Review, Beloit Poetry Journal. Cimarron Review, Crazyhorse, EPOCH, The Iowa Review, Laurel Review, The Massachusetts Review, New Ohio Review, The North American Review, Quarterly West, Sycamore Review, and Willow Springs, among others. His books include the chapbook Wanting to Be an Element, Each Breath I Cannot Hold, and The Island Blade.