Almost Here

by Kenneth Johnson

a flickering flame
desperate
to breathe
in a windstorm

waiting for
a sigh worth
a thousand words
finding none

consumed by
a flickering flame
desperate
to breathe

A touch
hovered above
circling a surface
lingering while

looking to light
hoping to find
solace in those
days and nights

when everything
hovered above
circling a surface
lingering while

lips pressed
against the skin
a polished apple
a summer of skin

lips pressed
against the skin
it’s almost here
it’s almost here

The Weight of Water

His hands formed
a cup as if to hold
a capsized ship

rudderlessly dragging
pushing the limit
of vanishing stability

His fingers tight
attempting to carry
the weight of water

seeking its level
the molecules slowly
loosening their grip

the cruel game
the complacency
the lure of pink noise

the temptation of waves
to swallow the ocean
to resist righting

Not Joined at The Hip

My therapist says we are not
            joined at the hip
my therapist is not my shadow
            but I know it’s a lie
that’s said over and over
            to sound like truth
My therapist says I need to
            get out more
I do so begrudgingly
            just for spite
not for pity but as a way
            to gain control
a way to not lose face
            to not be shamed
At least in some small way
            I must strike back
My therapist says we are not
            joined at the hip
My therapist has great ideas
            but they’re all on paper
stored in file cabinets
            with carbon steel locks
I’m sure on one page I saw
            a drawing of someone
being charged by a dog
            It looked like an attack dog
It was biting at the ankles
            pieces of pants in its teeth
splatters of saliva and blood
            all over the sidewalk
I’ve seen that dog
            I’ve been that dog

I Adopt Myself

I.

The body is weak
the mind a truck

pulling weight
up a hill
in the rain

My name means
nothing —
a response to a
sensation recall
prompt

II.

I remember
the harshness
of my father’s
words as he
berated me for
not wanting to
continue fishing
the creek
as the sun set

It’s autumn
cool again
the wind shakes
the branches
of birch trees

III.

Looking
from above
the landscape
shifts between
desert and city

city and desert

muted trapezoids
of land and stone
blocks of time
on a shelf
willing to be
called up at
a moment’s notice

to live
between worlds

IV.

The lighting perfect
I run my fingers
through my hair
sit just right
pose and smile

The flowers
of the calla lilies
planted after the
last frost are
opening midmorning
the sun converting
water droplets
formed on the lips
of the white spathes
into prisms

BIO

Kenneth Johnson is a poet, visual artist, and art teacher living in Claremont, California. His work has appeared in San Antonio Review, Talking River Review, Poetica Review, The Diaspora/UC Berkeley, and other publications. His chapbook Molten Muse is available at the usual places.

Additional information: kennethjohnsonart.wixsite.com/kennethjohnsonart