Poetry by Eric Stiefel
Our animal halves below the water,
back pressed to the metal faucet, your hair
flush blonde from the sun, grit
smoke submerged in the youth of the tub.
Other times the scene feels less fabricated—
When your mother tells it, for instance:
I wanted to touch the scar on his pelvis,
but didn’t, even then, despite some faint tenderness.
My own mother says I hugged you
so hard I squeezed tears from your bird-chest.
Cap gun on the bathroom floor, wrists you could
wrap a fist around now, parents’ beach house, faded
superhero action figure caught in the stripes
of my boxers, the window-light left to be forgotten,
the habit to reduce such a mystery to love. Other times
the memory passes into the stillness I call my brain.
About the Poet
Eric Stiefel is a graduate of the MFA program at Washington University in St. Louis, where he also served as
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