Peter W. Yaremko taught college writing classes and is author of three non-fiction books: A Light from Within;Saints and Poets, Maybe; and Fat Guy in a Fat Boat. His novel, Billy of the Tulips, was published in 2018 by TouchPoint Press. His poetry has appeared in Dual Coast Magazine,Poetry Quarterly,Allegro Poetry Magazine, Ariel Chart International Literary Journal, and Third Wednesday Magazine
BLOSSOM AND WITHER
Why do we bury them on their backs? As hydroponic blossoms in mellow wombs they rode bottoms-up except for the breeched. But now forever on their backs. Never on tummies, cheek on tucked-up arm. Never on sides or seats. No. Always on their backs. Is it danger of drool perhaps? Or to recall the sky they see no more and kill time considering past cloud pareidolia? Caskets coffins crypts rockhard berths softened by loamy soil and sateen cushions to cradle winter-cold skulls. They wither beneath unheard whispering in obverse incubation.
Thus says the Lord: Heaven’s my throne and earth my footstool, all made by my hand, all mine.
So what’s left for mortal me? Humble myself and tremble at such Olympian hauteur, trusting my quaking to quell him.
And hope Isaiah heard him wrong.
THE MAJESTIC DINER
7:04 on a New Jersey Monday morning. I have to link time and place if you didn’t know this ornery state swaggers along to its own time zone.
A silver-sided diner at the side of State Route 17, the side hustling the proletariat toward Manhattan. It dances in the blinding rising sun like a spangled, strutting cheerleader.
Alone with my omelet enchantment, lox scallion double mascarpone, I watch them, drop of jam on my buttered English touch of envy on my tongue.
Newly together, one can tell, she in dental braces still, his tie tossed over a shoulder. They lean to smooch: touch of tooth, coffee’s tang, orthodontics pewter smack all at play amidst the osculation. And hi-ho hi-ho, it’s off to work we go.
Can’t say wet, but slippery, evading my grasp wantonly as a fish in water until finally yielding to my blade, noir seeds, precise ball-bearings flee the concupiscent flesh, helter-skelter across the board, unfettered, freed, yet compelled to launch new life. I make toast.
To see what now is, look to clouds. No past we know of, no future, either. They are. Kinetic.
To see what now is, look to fog, moving, though it seems not to. Mist melting within mist as souls in a crowd. Unfixed.
To see what now is, look to the sea. Even calm it knows no stasis. Only flux and flow and lingering chaos of creation. Liquid.
To see what now is, look to you, look to me. No further. For now, for always, for ever we are. We are. Becoming.