May 23, 2012KR OnlinePoetry

Perishable Gods

The road at noon, at dark, the mustard field, the field.
The dark barn door, a brown horse behind a white fence
—blindfolded, the white greenhouse, stone’s empty gate.
Inhale of air conditioner, hinge of the door, the moon.
The dark barn door, a brown horse behind a white fence,
Warmth at dawn, a memory of kitchen’s spicy Malabar.
Inhale of air conditioner, hinge of the door, the moon.
The shape of my coffee cup, half-full, now empty.
Warmth at dawn, a memory of kitchen’s spicy Malabar.
I see it, I see her clearly, but I can’t remember what was said.
The shape of my coffee cup, half-full, now empty.
A rat climbs the wisteria finds a bird nest made of wool.
I see it, I see her clearly, but I can’t remember what was said.
The bird feeder above the night jasmine is empty.
A rat climbs the wisteria finds a bird nest made of wool.
A mother covers her boy with night’s blanket, a moth flutters.
The bird feeder above the night jasmine is empty.
Green of the pond, the wedding party, the red dragonfly.
A mother covers her boy with night’s blanket, a moth flutters.
A bird pecks at crumbs, a housecat’s bell.
Green of the pond, the wedding party, the red dragonfly.
Shale stones skip across water, I count 4.
A bird pecks at crumbs, a housecat’s bell.
I rest in the sun, air licked cleaned by wind, name it!
Shale stones skip across water, I count 4
Boats, anchored, nosing into wind’s squall.
I rest in the sun, air licked cleaned by wind, name it!
She reads the air, a bird responds, I ask “is it a bird?”
Boats, anchored, nosing into wind’s squall.
Lightning over Sand Harbor, a black dog swims ashore.
She reads the air, a bird responds, I ask “is it a bird?”
Wind chimes in the cricket song, an open window.
Lightning over Sand Harbor, a black dog swims ashore.
I count 4 before purple sky throbs with thunder.
Wind chimes in the cricket song, an open window.
A new wife packs tea in a box marked “perishable gods.”
I count 4 before purple sky throbs with thunder.
I see the wing, hear the song, I have no words.
A new wife packs tea in a box marked “perishable gods.”
Before the gate the departure hesitates, click.
I see the wing, hear the song, I have no words.
—blindfolded, the white greenhouse, stone’s empty gate.
Before the gate the departure hesitates—click.
The road at noon, at dark, the mustard field, the field.

David Koehn has published work in dozens of publications. Most recently, his work can be found in places such as Rhino, Phoebe, Volt, and NER.