Cloud Voyeurism – A poem.

The sheets cling to her curves, like
a toddler clinging to her mother,
afraid of leaving the comfort of stuffed animals
and cartoons for the terror of making
real friends, and learning what happens
when she has two apples and Johnny snatches
one. Makes her cry for mommy. The fabric
pulls taut against her, showing pale peach beneath
its white, where her skin threatens to fade
through and escape. Her breathing is captured,
breasts rising and falling like rolling
waves lapping at my feet. I can imagine
the sand feels pleasant spilling between
my toes, like she spills from the sheets.
Her legs escape, snaking over the bed
and sinking feet into the plush, white carpet.
For a moment, the sun presses through
the window, and she is golden
in the space between the sheets struggling
to contain her.

JKolasch

The Games We Play with Gods – A poem.

This is the beginning, in which
we see ourselves revealed—
shallow husks of skin that drift
through the blackest ocean,
pricked by the needles of gods.
Light bleeds through, tiny slivers
remind us of magic, and we gasp at shapes,
name them after dragons,
twins, and the mundane we know.

This is the beginning, in which
heaven enthralls us—
forget about husbands and wives,
waste away chasing stars.

Old eyes fail, and through
shaped and polished glass
we throw ourselves into the sky—
feel the drift and pull of planets
pass so close our fingers brush them.
Gods remain out of grasping hands,
still we try to climb into heaven.
Chasing prey we’ve never seen.

In time we puncture the black—
lights from our own needles.
Flames as long as rivers
smear the sky and blind us—
drifting in the dark, we are enveloped
in nothing.

JKolasch