Bravado
a pandemic reflection
Flesh and bone
is
prey
for a
viral
marauder;
our
mortality
the talk of the town.
Fear
is
blood-letting
the
reservoir
of
communal
hope.
Familiar
touchstones
disintegrate
into
free-form
sand piles.
We
scoop
and
scrape
the
diffusing grains;
knuckles reddened
with
crimson futility
to
maintain
our
shape
of
security.
This
moment
belies
our
bravado.
We
are
not
our
own.
Copyright © 2020 Chris De Man. All rights reserved.
The Marital Bed
Our bare legs glide
between cool cotton sheets,
instigating negotiations
to create a slumbering nest —
a cotton and polyester poultice
to draw away
the day’s exertions.
Deep exhalations
release soft sighs,
triggering warm nuzzles
and gentle touches.
Hands overlap;
we interlace fingers
in affectionate affirmation
of our sacred promise.
Fogged with weariness,
our bodies yield through
jerks and twitches;
the Sandman is here.
Celestial movements
shutter the day’s light,
gifting the hush of darkness.
Our embrace is benediction.
Copyright © 2020 Chris De Man. All rights reserved.
November’s Fourth Thursday
November clouds,
tucked in layers
gray and broody
skim fields
strewn with remnants
of harvest.
Kitchen table,
trusty fixture
gouged and timeworn
nexus
laminated with
bygone conversations.
Communal meal,
homespun tributes
to Grace
assembled for appetites
primed for
autumnal feasting.
We gather,
seasoned with
sadness and mirth
as familial presence
nurtures and stokes
our gratitude.
Dwelling Under a Friendly Sky 