A nightmare lingers long afterwards. It can be caught by a glimpse
into dreamtime: a word, a look, a resemblance to hunger, glimpsed.
We stalk one another ceaselessly, as prey. Marriage, married long since.
The tulips shut tight in the yard — we bring them inside for a glimpse.
The ambient temperature causes them to open. For instance,
this: petals falling open in sequence, petals ragged, fallen, pollen-glimpsed.
Envy for the siblings’ well-traveled lives — Paris, Kyoto, rinsed
in sun. Here we occupy leather seats, watch evening news on TV, glimpse
a world locked in war. We see refugees who flee for a glimpse
of peace, a bit of food, cup of water, the kind word, its fragrance, glimpsed.
JUDITH SKILLMAN’s how to is Broken Lines — The Art & Craft of Poetry, from Lummox Press. Poems have appeared in Poetry, Tar River Poetry, FIELD, Seneca Review, The Iowa Review, Prairie Schooner, Pontoon, and other journals and anthologies. Skillman is the recipient of an Eric Mathieu King Fund Award from the Academy of American Poets for Storm, Blue Begonia Press. She has taught at City University, Richard Hugo House, and elsewhere. Angles of Separation, her new book, is available from Glass Lyre Press. Visit her on the web.