Terese Svoboda

Redeye | The Window’s Water
July 24, 2017 Svoboda Terese

Redeye

 

that never sets,
contrail bloody with

eclipse
we rock under: white bathrobe

and nudity, damp seat, damn
oarlock, fish ruching the black,

the air filled with space, with cold,
a plane so far above

its rumble is weather
crossing the width of the country,

look away look away
someone standing up paddling

drifts out of moonlight,
crying.

 

 

 

The Window’s Water

 

Take that! Weather is sad and furious and you
in your Kindle light, words draining, words paged

against your finger, your desire staunched
under the machine, under argument–

you touch the length of my side as if absent,
as if imprisoned in that electric grid,

only that hand free, the rest of you knotted.
I read hope in your effort, not absence,

while stars made of beaded water
stand on the pane, the light through them

furious, sad, reflecting myself
before I wipe the glass with my sleeve.

Terese Svoboda’s most recent book of poetry is Professor Harriman’s Steam Air-Ship (Eyewear, 2016). The Maine in Spain, a chapbook, is forthcoming in 2018 from Island Verse.