The Season's Final Swim

A warm September evening
under a starlight tarp of black,
hidden by staggered rows of pine,
they shed their sandals and summer clothes
to the lisp of the wind
and sprint across a wet thatch of mulch
through damp shoreline sand,
following the moon's vanilla path
into the ice cream cold
that licks them all over at once,
their screams stunted,
skimming the chilled water's surface
like skipping stones
that finally sink
into the lake's silent depths.
Slowly, they leech
into the watery darkness
consumed with the mysterious whispers
of nature about them,
enveloped by a strangeness
which strips their minds,
plunging them deeper
into the solitude of the country.
The lake's thick whiskers of chill
scratch their skin
while they wade clumsily,
a spectacle for the sleepy bass
far beneath the surface,
navigating the soft currents of human curiosity.
On the shore, a host of fireflies blink
a Morse code of amusement.

Thief

Two days ago
the sun caught me stealing light
to illuminate a poem,

demanded restitution,
then reported me to Mother Nature
who posted my likeness about the land.

Soon, the ocean, forest, birds, flowers, et. al.
filed suit for substantial abuse
and complacent philandering without permission.

I pleaded guilty;
admitted taking breath from wind
for deliverance,

marshmallows from the sky to sweeten song,
and rage from the ocean
to instill a sense of urgency.

Convicted and confined to a windowless room
no writing, visitation
or glimpses of stolen sights,

I was sentenced to imagine beauty
without embezzlement
and the wholesale exploitation of words.

Michael Keshigian Most recently, his work has appeared in Bellowing Ark, Ghoti, Mannequin Envy, Avocet, Meridian Anthology, and Barbaric Yawp, among other written and online journals. He has two Pushcart Prize nominations, a Best Of The Net nomination and has had five chapbooks published. He is a performing musician and college educator in Boston.

Email: Michael Keshigian

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