Two Poems from Jason Sturner

It isn’t his fault . . .

It isn't his fault
that our hearts fell from their cage
or that something like god
pulled broken the strings.

Now it's tar and tears, a new pavement
over the old road we drove:
intersections, car crashes;
dead love merging with the moonlight.

Those memories we made
now a bitter lick of blood,
falling from the edge of yesterday…

drip
drip
drip…

into a widening pool.

I hope it will end soon—
I prefer silence when thinking of you.




Whispers

I am a whisper.
Of storms through your skin,
the desire-rain
across your inner thigh.

You are a whisper.
Of buttons slightly untamed,
the lightning-window
inside a metal frame.

This pinprick in our shadow
reveals a minor flow,
like hearts caught in a spiral
where the wind ascends.

And if dust settled
on the swan’s bones,
a quilt-sky could rise
from this field of poppies.

Until then, I am a whisper.
Of night tangled in vines,
the dream-pathos
exhausting your sleep.

Until then, you are a whisper.
Of thoughts shutting my eyes,
the curtain-stage
hiding these theatricals.

You say:
I cannot go beyond words for you—
We both know why.

And I reply:
When my heart falls to the floor,
poetry will do.

Jason Sturner grew up in the Fox River Valley in Illinois. His poems have appeared in such publications as Chantarelle's Notebook, Thick with Conviction, and Sein und Werden, among others. He currently lives near the Great Smoky Mountains. Website: www.jasonsturner.blogspot.com

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