Poetry
by C. Rohrbacher
My
Wife
chews through her children's worlds,
listens to the cud of daily life. The baby yawns
between bites; her older sister entertains
with tales of swings, flowers, and a boy
named Chase.
Afterwards we make kaleidoscopes from toilet paper tubes,
put on music and drum and sing and dance in circles.
And when we are all wheezing with laughter,
we fan ourselves
and fall into quiet. My oldest daughter loves sleep, the imagination's
Tiger
Lilly. The baby fights it; she's all thrash and eye spin. She
tastes
the world differently, a glutton for the
explosion of textures
and aromas, the sweet gnashing and slow burn. My wife,
whom this poem was supposed to be about, drinks coffee then tosses
and turns in bed. She wishes she were warmer,
curls into my skin
as naturally as a body stretching after a large meal. The streetlight
illuminates her face and I am amazed: A woman such as this
could turn her body into mine and whisper
her stories to me;
A woman such as this could make me feel so delightfully sated;
A woman such as this would hold my hand and slide with me into
dream.
top
Coming
Through Ohio at Two in the Morning
36 South
bar closed, diner closed, houses quiet
and yawning
cool wind drifting from the river
bodies of dark deer assembling roadside
cocking their heads and nubbing night stars
with black noses
she clutches my knee:
slow down
she whispers as if in church
speed on these curves is precarious
with thick trees washing up from the river's banks
and animals ignorantly stepping the threshold
cars give more than one might think
metal and glass, blood
and hoof
slow down
there are bodies in the darkness, waiting and pure,
full from drinking the Ohio,
full of themselves.
top
Insatiable
He'd ask her at dinner, over hummus and
water, some
Fresh green peppers, onion and cucumbers in vinaigrette
A song in the background as tender as fine wine.
She'd be wearing a smile-simple sundress,
Loose as wind, open-toed sandals, and a hint
Of nervousness. He'd wait until she blushed. The words
Would taste like springtime. Who would've
thought
She'd say thank you, fold her napkin, kiss his cheek
Say, Sorry, I prefer a man who eats red meat.
top
For the past 15 years C. Rohrbacher
has published poetry, interviews, and book reviews in periodicals
and journals nationwide including Spillway, Faultline, Sunstone,
New York Quarterly, Amelia, and others. He has won a Louisiana
Division of the Arts Grant and an Ohio Arts Council Fellowship
for poetry. He's also been a semi-finalist in the Nicholl's Fellowship
and Chesterfield Competition.
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