January 30, 2015

1974. {Poem}

 front porch


In the barn
I have finished
hammering scrap
wood together

in the shape
of a boat. It
is dusk. On the
steps of my

house sit three
naked men. They
are wet. Droplets
slip from dark

lengths of hair,
bleeding into,
moistening those
brick steps they

sit on. And
they laugh. Pa comes
out of the house
with towels

calls me, then,
to introduce
them. They are his

students who drank
jug wine and walked
backward into

the frog pond.
As I shake their
dripping hands, they
laugh, guess at

how awkward
this must be for
me, though does not
seem to be.

What I can’t know:
I will never
see a thing more

than three drunk,
naked poets
on the stoop of
my house, drying

themselves with
the towels I
will use for ten
more years of baths.

Relephant read:

The Solitude Paradox. 

Author: Rachel Astarte

Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock

Photo: flickr

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