Answer I Don't Get
No more shall I knock staring down
at the ground as I wait for you
to open up for me. I have done this too many times
now, and with each occurrence I become less
of a man, more of a child. Who wants to baby sit
a child of these years, too old for a bottle,
still wanting to suckle at the breast of a woman?
I have seen what this kind of relationship
can do to a man, and I want no part of it now,
the angst and frustration. But still, that breast-
I want it. I know I could rip you apart in three minutes,
but you could claw my eyes out bloody and raw in two.
It's the coupling I can't get out of my mind these days,
the heat and the friction like two bare sticks rubbing
together in the slightest summer breeze. It is an opiate
for the senses, a lecherous adventure
for fingers hardened and wrinkled by time. It makes me
feel guilty for the pleasure of having it,
deep submersion in the whole of it. And yet that breast-
It's thinking on it that fires my core with a flame
not easily extinguished. It smolders
as old as stone and as dull as a slight ache
in the center of the chest. I want to feel
it there in the middle of me and in the middle of the apple
of my consciousness, a seed as I lie alone, awake
in the night as I often am, thinking these thoughts
for no one but me. I will leave the doorbell silent,
leave it for another to take up while I lie
and ruminate some more upon it. Or perhaps I will find
another, one with no attachments at all except the physical
ones, which are a must. You will not hear my faltering
footsteps as I trod away from your stoop,
the same as I always have been. And yet, that breast-
Michelle On Ice
A low gloss of deep crimson
colors the water in the tub. Fish
eyes stare into nothing
but ever and eternity through
a mass of matted black hair.
Blue lips parted as if in final breath.
Cool nakedness, stiffening.
Razor gleams on the tub side.
Opened flesh reveals cartilage,
bone, veins fresh with exposure
to the air. Prescription bottle
lays on the bath mat, spilled,
Of course, there had been
the argument, misunderstanding
like all the others.
There had been honest threats,
screams, tears like before.
He swings the door open
to find her there.
Don Kloss is a South Jersey poet and musician who lives teetering on
the edge of sanity. His work has appeared in such publications as
The Edison Literary Review, US1 Worksheets, previously in Thick With
Conviction and most recently in Hobo Camp Review. He is a member of
the South Jersey poetry group The Quick And Dirty Poets. When not
writing Don can be found kayaking, camping, fishing or entertaining
other outdoor pursuits. He firmly believes in the right to bear arms
and to arm bears.