we sat beneath that night, the one that lost a limb six years before (I heard it crack and saw it drop when I was at home plate). That oak is where we spoke the words of love (albeit drunk and horny), words that neither you nor I dare use in poems today: abstractions, nothing like the fire that glinted in your hair, your breast skin cool as silk, my stubbly beard that burned your neck. Much later, when you told me of the dark side, side you thought might be my best but not a side for you, I thought of coal, of bluesman’s voice, uranium, life-giving poison fueling any chance we have at art.
About the Poet:
Thomas Zimmerman teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits The Big Windows Review at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His poems have appeared recently in Black Coffee Review, Ephemeral Elegies, and Molecule.
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