When it Works, it Works Like This

Her eyes close,
and I become historic scenes
of gold-kissed sand and secrets,
goat and lamb and spices.

I become the fiery crucible,
infernal home of incense,
cauldron of the eternal.

Bold like an accent mark
suspended above her body,
waiting to be pronounced by

hidden whispers
in the archways of our tongues,

where the moon flirts with us
in language only we can hear—

where we hold our breath,
and we hold its breath,
and it holds parts of us
too ancient to remember—

parts that quelled the crying wolves
before men bathed in fire,
when the air was loose
and mystic.

Existential Window Pain

As if I’m playing out
abandoned scripts you left for me.
I keep forgetting to check the mail,
and sometimes these keys play hard to get,

retreating to corners of a house
that once held our clothes
and gatekept our secrets—

where we first stared out the window
trying to catch the moon
fleeing from the midnight sky,
each of us ashamed to show
faces we could never hide

Now, your ceramic owl sits still upon
the windowsill, conceiving
dreams of owls in dying elm trees—
wise enough to call them mirrors,
to call them memories.

It knows too well that
nothing in this house will ever fly again
or bare its naked wings

as Forever’s breath bites into my skin,
the names of absent flowers—
aching to bloom again
one day

and if they do,
I will finally clean the fridge

A. Michael Schultz is a writer and educator residing in Northern Appalachia. His work explores themes of faith, guilt, desire, and fulfillment. He is an Assistant Professor of English at Belmont College.