At one time when a moment was wholly
itself, I could rock in my mother’s lap
to her imperfect song, her singing slowly
raveling the long night I couldn’t sleep
into the warp of her love, without thinking
as I do now that the bird in the tree
will stop its slow-paced song, and the singing
of the glass as it breaks in the street
will melt into the asphalt under wheels,
and that this day of heat, of our stillness
after making love, feeling how distance
begins with closeness, how invisibly it congeals
between us, how your breath on my hand
recurring like the promise of love, will end.
Kirk Glaser’s poetry has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and is forthcoming or has appeared in Nimrod, The Threepenny Review, Cerise Press, Sou’wester, Alsop Review, The Cortland Review, and elsewhere. He teaches writing and literature at Santa Clara University, where he serves as faculty advisor to the Santa Clara Review, and is co-editor of the anthology, New California Writing 2013, Heyday.