OCTOBER: Poetry Harvest
Steve Tomasko, Jeanie Tomasko & Sharon Auberle
You said I should write more love poems and
I said, I’m sorry, but I’ve been thinking about
sloths. Well, actually, the moths that live
on sloths. Nestle into their fur, take the slow,
slow ride through the rain forest. Once a week
the sloth descends to the forest floor. Defecates.
Female moths leap off; lay their eggs on the fresh
feces; jump back on. Their caterpillars nourish
themselves on the fetid feast, metamorphose
into moths, fly up into the canopy to find
their own sloths. They prefer the three-toed
over the two-toed. Who can figure attraction?
The algae-covered sloth fur is the only home
the sloth moths know. The only place they live.
I know it’s a Darwinian thing but fidelity
comes to mind. Commitment. Patience.
The world writes love poems all the time.
-- Steve Tomasko
Originally published in The Fiddlehead
Never Underestimate the Ocean
From your bedroom bed, left side under your old lamp, you heard the ocean all night long from miles away and even asleep, the waves of the winter storm crashed inside your dreams. The seals from the harbor hid behind your small ear bones. The surf piped into the seaside restaurant was real. A person takes their waking to sleep, I read. All waking, I studied your weathermap until I heard your rain the way I’ve heard my distant train, its clack and whistle, from the other side of town. If you look at the world upsidedown all day your dreams will be full of misfortune, the teller said. But inside my sleeping, inside my ear, my left ear, it came in the night, your ocean storm, your rain-rattled sky. I didn’t dream anything bad. Just rain and umbrellas and I knew without knowing your lamp was yellow though it had nothing to do with anything and I liked the way we took off our shoes and walked along the only dry part left to the left of the ear drum.
-- Jeanie Tomasko
Blue is a Fugitive Color
It is the color of ambiguous depth,
of the heavens and of the abyss at once…
-- Alexander Theroux
Do you remember that night
I said I would have to leave?
Under a blue moon
in Clem & Ursie's Bar
you asked would I walk toward
something or away
and I said a horizon
is what I need,
a road rising to meet me.
Dante's 9th Circle of Hell isn't fire
yet blue light
has the energy to escape ice
and remain visible.
Too often invisible to you I became
is a fugitive color
fades quicker than any other.
-- Sharon Auberle