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Matthew Gleckman




Life as a Raindrop

At last they came to the old manís
final wish of ashes scattered over a local
pond.

His wife of forty-four years did the deed,
turning her back carefully to avoid
the wind,

the bodyís fiber absorbed into the wet
bottomless purple of deep pools --
to wait out

the season among stringy-thin fingers
of reed and eelgrass, impatient for
the warmth

and weightlessness of spring, to be
lifted high into the atmosphere of April
in hope

that one cool morning she might wander
too far from home, without raincoat or umbrella,
so that

he might charge down upon her from
above and she might once again feel his
cool touch

trickling down the back of her neck.




Memory of Love Making
or Paddling a Canoe

Tight white skin
pulled hard over ribs,
the arching back,
the muscles taut,
clean lines curving
below the fluid surface,
the body unyielding
and elegant. And you --
you who swings
the weighty bulk
of your body to a
maddening pace,
you who long ago
entered cautiously,
careful not to upset
the fragile balance,
you, who in your
arrogance, tried to lead
instead of being led --
can you close your eyes
now and remember
back to a time when
you were afraid
to leave the shore?




©2003 by Matthew Gleckman


Matthew Gleckman is a writer living in Issaquah, Washington. He has worked as a journalist for numerous newspapers and magazines throughout the western United States. His fiction and poetry have been published in magazines and anthologies including: Avocet, Grating the Senses, Slow Trains, The Morpo Review, Kota Press, Telluride Magazine (winner, summer 2000 poetry contest), Continuum, Windfall, and Shadows and Light. His Poetry and short fiction are also forthcoming in Reflections.


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