This word is not
a dove, but
a pigeon.

This word has
a voice which
always lights a candle.

And a smile
that knows me.


A storm of stupidity
usually precedes and
follows this word.

Sin haunts this word's bones.
Its brain is choking on
mildewed cliches,

Its eyes are
a starless night,
its heart,
a dense green fog.


Allow this word
to absorb your mind.

This word is
a tiny slice of heaven,
a heaven full of
creamy cannolis
and bubbling lasagna.

Its eyes are slippery blue,
and its soul whispers
in the moonlight.

David Kowalczyk’s poetry has appeared in seven anthologies and over seventy magazines, including California Quarterly, St. Ann's Review, Maryland Review and Istanbul Literary Review.  He has taught English in Mexico and South Korea, and at several American universities, including Arizona State.  He was founding editor of the late Gentle Strength Quarterly.

Copyright 2009