Friday, February 17, 2006
That day for lunch they gathered outside,
held pinhole cameras instead of deli sandwiches
while the moon swallowed the sun halfway.
Even the street drummers were silent
as the eclipse dimmed herald square:
bigger than the empire state building,
bigger than broadway
where the people stood silent in the eerie light.
Any other day they’d be racing streetlights and taxis
while the drummers beat crazy percussion on plastic buckets;
while the placid sun dozed in a smoggy sky.
Few of them realized we are all human together
until our star waned into a fragile crescent
burning a miniature sign at our feet.
© 2001 Christine Klocek-Lim
first published in "Mi Poesias," 2001 Cities Issue, Volume 6
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
It’s said that dreams inspire you—
and when you wake,
breath caught with joy,
you know it’s true
though you thought you were done with spring,
the long meander
through tall trees and waving grass.
© 2004 Christine Klocek-Lim
first published in "the Aurorean," March 2005, Volume 10, Issue 2
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Although she felt fine
the airline card suggested:
“Cross your legs. Rotate
the dangling foot in a circle.
Continue until tired.”
She tried fifty stretches but still
the landing gear lodged sideways.
She could see the front wheel
turned wrong on live satellite tv
as her foot circled obediently,
moved maybe-clots around
her body stuck in the narrow
space in coach seating.
Soon her ankles felt as loose
as a broken wheel.
She knew her son watched
at home, could see the stupid
wheel jammed crosswise,
and her hands cramped suddenly
from holding steady as the plane flew
for three hours to burn fuel.
When finally the pilot said:
“bend down” she leaned over
until the plane’s nose dipped
low enough for the broken wheel
to mar the runway’s center line with fire.
She knew her time had come
despite the exercise
because the news showed everything
except how her son must have stood
tense as a blocked artery
until the plane stopped
and the tv went blank.
© 2005 Christine Klocek-Lim