by Alex Schmidt
He hides under hot
lamps and sandpaper eyes.
Lay your wrist on the sidewalk.
I can draw chalk in your veins, father.
are turns the corner, frozen
despite his friction, friction despite
my icy eyes thanks to mother.
A pressure that’s bonded my mind
to hers like the bolts of this bridge
but over his void. Father,
wait no longer and wander further
with me to the felled park. All lands
must wait their wait for a green of crops.
A mystery exacted only until
its black blanket smother
of wall a distance
between father and son. And now
its time one of us admits
we’ve already arrived.
You burgeon into peony
as air unfurls its density,
warmth, puff balls. Rather,
father, let them around
your pedals. Duck back away into
the trees, close your eyes,
we can hide differently
Alex Schmidt holds a BA in poetry from Columbia College Chicago, and an MFA in Poetry and Creative Writing from Queens University of Charlotte. He still lives in North Carolina, where he works for Trader Joe’s. When he is not working or writing one might spot him reading a book as he walks his dog, riding his bike to the library, or trying to keep up with his wife when she jogs. Much of his time, recently, is filled with experiencing the various “important” films one might call a necessary supplement to the creative diet. He also maintains a blog semi-regularly at Sausageshapedearth.wordpress.com.
Image credit: liz west on Flickr