Aleathia Drehmer
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Aleathia Drehmer is currently awaiting the local pool
to open and the sun to stay out for more than an hour. She
is the poetry editor for Full of Crow and co-editor
of special editions for Zygote in my Coffee. She
lives in rural Painted Post in upstate New York with her
darling daughter and one crazy cat.
Aleathia has been lucky enough to be published in
many online and print journals in the small press over the
last few years. She is even luckier to have amazing
friends. Her forthcoming chap
“Circles” is available from Kendra Steiner
Editions in June 2009 and will share a 69 Flip from
Tainted Coffee Press called “Empty Spaces” with
Dan Provost. Her previously published work can be viewed
here: www.myabdication.blogspot.com
to open and the sun to stay out for more than an hour. She
is the poetry editor for Full of Crow and co-editor
of special editions for Zygote in my Coffee. She
lives in rural Painted Post in upstate New York with her
darling daughter and one crazy cat.
Aleathia has been lucky enough to be published in
many online and print journals in the small press over the
last few years. She is even luckier to have amazing
friends. Her forthcoming chap
“Circles” is available from Kendra Steiner
Editions in June 2009 and will share a 69 Flip from
Tainted Coffee Press called “Empty Spaces” with
Dan Provost. Her previously published work can be viewed
here: www.myabdication.blogspot.com
- Harbingers
The darkened room harbors
concentric circles
on the hangar's peaked roof,
haloed light circumnavigates
the flying machine's crown.
Bulk metal rectangles pounded
into submission, the blacksmith's sweat
splattered on its walls with each drop
of his hammer, the reverberation echoes still.
Molten angles come together
as conjoined twins in blue fire
still fresh in the welder's eyes,
retinas
burning with possibility.
Our shoes clink loudly
as we enter the arched rod canopy,
ancient poles for poisson, hugging
the air and rooted in metal.
The framework holds us all
fast to the dream. We take flight
in quiet overhead breezes
and the hum of shared imaginations.
A Rebirth of the
Sun
Outside, snow falls in circles.
Moons hide.
Suns elucidate elsewhere,
anywhere but here.
The oven warms my hands
as I wait for toast to brown,
to be covered in
butter and strawberry
jam; wait for the new fallen snow
to be driven from my knuckles.
This orange glow shrouds my face
in the quiet aching of the kitchen,
produces memories I never made,
about flames used to molten plastic
into burst tears on rough painted papers.
Fingertips blistered naming constellations,
tongue licking verses of the Gita
transmogrifying words into animal brethren,
smelling volcanic after emerging
out of calculated graphite strokes.
Those silver stained insect wings
are imprinted into grooved skin,
dry and cracked like desert earth,
and knowledge lingers. Words
give rebirth to art, lost treasures of color
web together in universal law
with disproportionate dimensions.
I am left with stiff fingers
and floods of ideas moving slow
through mental gorges, once dry.