July 2016
Steve Klepetar
sfklepetar@stcloudstate.edu
sfklepetar@stcloudstate.edu
I was born in Shanghai, China, the son of Holocaust survivors, and grew up in New York City. I now live in the booming metropolis of Saint Cloud, Minnesota, where there are a surprisingly large number of good, cheap, hole-in-the wall ethnic restaurants. Two of my four grandchildren live in town, so I get to spend a good deal of time with them, playing tag, which is sort of like running wind sprints. For over thirty years I taught in the English department at Saint Cloud State University, where the kids from Lake Woebegon go to college, and I can attest to the fact that they all are, in fact, above average. Please take a look at these two chapbooks, which are available for download at the amazingly low price of nothing: Blue Season (with poems by me and V-V regular Joseph Lisowski, and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein — click on the book titles.)
Author’s Note: While the events in this poem, such as they are, happened only in my imagination, the billboard is real. I’ve seen it the past few summers on US – 94 between Saint Cloud and the Twin Cities.
Your Wife is Hot
I was seventeen, on my way home
from the beach alone, when I discovered
I was in love with billboards, their crudity
and size and gaucherie. Like always,
I was slightly burned, a bit sunblind,
thirsty, taste of salt lingering
around my lips. The radio was playing
a song about a girl who was missing a boy
or someone coming to a dance, something
like that, but there was no sex allowed
because everyone was too young. Just then
I passed a billboard above Atlantic Avenue:
Your wife is hot!
Get her A.C. fixed.
A giant repairman in overalls looked out
with an open, sympathetic face, neither
leering nor pleading, just a nice guy,
competent and kind. Oh, how I wanted
a hot wife and to get her A.C. fixed,
and I wanted that guy to be my friend,
to come over and repair whatever in my life
pinged, banged, smoked, or burst into flame.
Running on Sand
While I was slow on grass
or concrete (cemented to first
base, almost always “it,” drain
on the relay team) I could run
like hell on sand. Maybe
it’s my bones, hollow
as a bird’s, a slight alteration
in my DNA, or maybe
the brand of peanut butter
my mother bought, a cheap
one from a lower shelf.
Maybe I got bitten
by a radioactive crab or
slept with a lost pearl in my bed
or from my cradle
saw my mother sucking clams.
Who knows?
But at the beach on hot
white sand, I kicked up storms —
you didn’t want to run
behind me, trying to breathe
crushed fragments of a hundred
billion shells.
And on the wet gray sand
by ocean’s edge, my footprints
welled and disappeared
like skywriting or summer
smoke. Spiderlegs they called
me, Sandrunner, Beachripper,
Shorelinelightening vanished,
sail on the horizon, blurring into fog.
First published in Stirring
Make Your Reservation Now To See The Stars
An invitation on the Saint Cloud State University Web Site
Watch them ride into town, two by two
on their sparkling saddles, platinum showers
of hair. Be blinded by their luminous smiles.
Hold on to your sister’s hand, and remember
to remember this day. When you are old
someone will ask if you ever saw the stars
ride down so close you could have kissed
each one on the burning lips. “Yes,” you
will say, “with a cold coke pressed to my
mouth on a hot day in a small town, pale ice
fringes of their chaps fluttering in the hot wind.
Passed so close my wrist ached with desire,
my palms itched with the greed of touch.”
Sometimes, just before you fall asleep, some
small inkling of their amazing light will splash
against your face and a stirring will arise,
great in you like a silver fish leaping for air.
You can only hold your breath. Sometimes
you will mistake this joy for love, turn on some
earthly body to comfort all your aching blood.
First Published in Facets
Your Wife is Hot
I was seventeen, on my way home
from the beach alone, when I discovered
I was in love with billboards, their crudity
and size and gaucherie. Like always,
I was slightly burned, a bit sunblind,
thirsty, taste of salt lingering
around my lips. The radio was playing
a song about a girl who was missing a boy
or someone coming to a dance, something
like that, but there was no sex allowed
because everyone was too young. Just then
I passed a billboard above Atlantic Avenue:
Your wife is hot!
Get her A.C. fixed.
A giant repairman in overalls looked out
with an open, sympathetic face, neither
leering nor pleading, just a nice guy,
competent and kind. Oh, how I wanted
a hot wife and to get her A.C. fixed,
and I wanted that guy to be my friend,
to come over and repair whatever in my life
pinged, banged, smoked, or burst into flame.
Running on Sand
While I was slow on grass
or concrete (cemented to first
base, almost always “it,” drain
on the relay team) I could run
like hell on sand. Maybe
it’s my bones, hollow
as a bird’s, a slight alteration
in my DNA, or maybe
the brand of peanut butter
my mother bought, a cheap
one from a lower shelf.
Maybe I got bitten
by a radioactive crab or
slept with a lost pearl in my bed
or from my cradle
saw my mother sucking clams.
Who knows?
But at the beach on hot
white sand, I kicked up storms —
you didn’t want to run
behind me, trying to breathe
crushed fragments of a hundred
billion shells.
And on the wet gray sand
by ocean’s edge, my footprints
welled and disappeared
like skywriting or summer
smoke. Spiderlegs they called
me, Sandrunner, Beachripper,
Shorelinelightening vanished,
sail on the horizon, blurring into fog.
First published in Stirring
Make Your Reservation Now To See The Stars
An invitation on the Saint Cloud State University Web Site
Watch them ride into town, two by two
on their sparkling saddles, platinum showers
of hair. Be blinded by their luminous smiles.
Hold on to your sister’s hand, and remember
to remember this day. When you are old
someone will ask if you ever saw the stars
ride down so close you could have kissed
each one on the burning lips. “Yes,” you
will say, “with a cold coke pressed to my
mouth on a hot day in a small town, pale ice
fringes of their chaps fluttering in the hot wind.
Passed so close my wrist ached with desire,
my palms itched with the greed of touch.”
Sometimes, just before you fall asleep, some
small inkling of their amazing light will splash
against your face and a stirring will arise,
great in you like a silver fish leaping for air.
You can only hold your breath. Sometimes
you will mistake this joy for love, turn on some
earthly body to comfort all your aching blood.
First Published in Facets
©2016 Steve Klepetar
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