She’s gone and the woods scream with her absent
voice. Moonlight tangled in willow nets, frogs
rising to greet the night. She is heartbeat, uneven
steps along a steep descent, all slippery rocks
wet with winter rain. No doubt some angel
called down for combat by every desperate
need to grip and strain will shimmer and appear,
glistening and solid as flesh, to try a fall muddied
with human sweat and leaves, a rustling
of wind. His wings (if wings they are, those iron
appendages flapping from shoulder blades)rise
and fall, battering this dark stillness as they push
and hurt and draw blood. Her footfalls echo along
the stream bed, little drums buffeting the ears of mice.
STEVE KLEPETAR has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Flutter Press recently published his latest chapbook, My Father Teaches Me a Magic Word. He teaches literature and creative writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota.