Green Hills Literary Lantern

 

 

 

 

 Cave Hymnal

 

In the dark dark of a man's chest

where even the ants find rest

and the rain, like a steady drum,

slides off its leaf into endlessness,

is a woman. Not alive,

but etched like initials in a tree -

the harp of her cheek bone,

sharp music, and the dance

of her lips a slow waltz

while everything else falls apart.

We hold the memory of one strand

of hair and lie in the memory, head slanted

on the floor while the ants, asleep,

breathe her name back and forth,

back and back and forth.

 

 

 

Philip Schaefer is a twenty-something living in Chicago. This is his second poem published by the Green Hills Literary Lantern and he has poems up and coming in his mind. He thinks three sentences are perfect for an artist’s bio.

 

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