The Oak by Thomas Zimmerman

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.
Photo by Min An on

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 ReviewEphemeral Elegies, and Molecule

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