Five Points, Vol. 21, No. 3

Sample Content

George David Clark
With the Pink Hydrangea Heads Ogling

Even under these layers
I feel Your gray hand
lay the question
like ice on the nape
of my mind, and suddenly,
now that You’ve asked it
a ten thousandth time,
on this nearly-dawned Tuesday
I’m ready to answer.

I throw back the sheets,
and shed my old t-shirt
and boxers. To peel off
my house, I climb on the bed,
clench the cord on the fan
and drag it downstairs
like an oversized zipper,
the walls parting clean
with a chirr and a gasp.

Yes Sir, it’s cool out:
naked and pale
in a puddle of real
estate with the pink
hydrangea heads
ogling. But see how
the air togas over
my shoulder, fold
after fold after fold?

Transparencies too
are constricting, as heavy
sometimes as the whole
natural world. I have
to bow all the way down
to feel for the hem
of the universe,
fringed like new grass
and as dewy and soft.

I’m lifting it over
my head now,
the chill of it slicking
my thighs and my ass,
the pines upside down
and rising, the planets
and constellations,
and my ugly polka dot
self rolling past.