SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 2013: POETRY
by Marci Rae Johnson
—for Thom Caraway
When you came up
out of your office into
the customary light you
heard it. In the gap
between the two
buildings you heard
it bounce one to the
other. You on one
side with your red
ball cap the priest
on the other wearing
purple the veil of
light cloud 57 degrees
and high humidity.
You heard it and
the air lifted just
a slender wing flap
of skin paper cut
blood turning blue
to red. This is not
a cliché because you
are the one who
turned his head
who broke the barrier
between sound and
the desire to say
that it matters.
You the particular one
stopping to listen
to rub between your
thumb and forefinger
the sweat of sky on brick.
Marci Rae Johnson teaches English at Valparaiso University, where she serves as poetry editor for The Cresset. She is also the poetry editor for WordFarm Press.
