With Hands of Stone
by Steve Klepetar

Here in the halls of mirth you juggle
oranges, only two, a novice with hands
of stone. Calm down, let webs hang
in dusty corners, allow spiders to glide
unmolested down their filaments of ice.
At least it will be summer then, a heap
of ordinary days. Lightning and fog,
grass half weeds and ankle high, the boy
you were nervous, lost between A-field
and sparkling lake. White bread and oleo,
sweating juice jugs, all the thundering
songs. Even then your throat brimming
with words, wrinkled nose bombarded
by sweet syrup and cocoa and heat,
something nameless beneath, clawing
its chemical way into your spinning brain.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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