the smell of rain you know. blood on the horizon. patient trees.
the knowing grass. four sided wind, stalled flat in the field. half
moon and everyone i love is weather. plate glass sky turned inside
out. january music in june. sunday sunset i can not forget. deep
inner dark. across the street my neighbor's window looking out.
with the broken mouth of a prophet, i play around at conversation.
from His balcony, God listens while watching the game. the city sleeps.
the alphabet of insects sleep. the numerical birds. the people who grow
larger every year, sleep. hearts toss and turn. rivers croon. i finger
the air. oh please. thirty four years ago i learned to live on this earth,
not of it. it's calm tonight. i sit outside beneath a blanket of stars.
i ask questions. i wonder. i don't bother, let alone practice. i pray.
i throw my heart at you.
time is always leaving and returning.
you busy-work in the garage
to blow off steam.
hammer and nails.
plywood and beer.
chromatic air.
i stay inside pinpointing fault.
the evening chips away.
the sun goes flat.
the moon, at some point,
comes up. eventually
you return, to the four cornered
room if not to me.
how can i look at you without breaking?
on a night like any other night.
after 15 years, and yet,
i can not help but think,
have we met?
A poet and essayist, Lisa Marie Zaran currently resides in Tempe, Arizona with her husband and two children. Her work has been published in numerous literary small presses and online magazines, some of which include: Poetry Tonight, Exsanguinate, Black Dirt Press, Indie Journal, A Writer's Choice Literary Journal, 2River View, Whillow, and Thunder Sandwich. Lisa has lived a varied life, moving over 40 times before the age of fourteen. Because of this she has found an amazing well of ideas in which to write about as well as an appreciation for the many, at times terrifying, experiences she has had as "the new kid in town."