3 Poems Sonya Posmentier



Feeling has no windows no running water



the farmhouse you visited

when you were twelve

was in a dying orchard

snow apples fell around

you where you walked



when you were thirsty

you sat in your cellar room

and drank from them


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Overheard



We need some leaves, to save

For the winter, Darling.



For winter, having ridden

All the way to Utica



With an angry kitten in my lap,

I will buy an automobile



With plush interior.

I will get warm by the fire



That rages in the East. I will

Try to remember the shapes



We painted on rocks

With water, when we were



Barefoot in the wet

Wood chips, the shape of what



Life—winded away by fall.

I will build a house in treetops,


I will open its door to love.


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Skin



Wouldn’t dare touch it. Instead, covered it,

forgot we had it. Under one sleeve, found

another. Our slickered arms not like

the natural hands going at it in the woods

behind the cabin, whose magic was never

to be found out, hidden as it was beneath

the leaves. Skin that was its own camouflage.

How our bodies turned on us, meant things

they couldn’t say. Stayed pale, even in

summer; dry, even in slickest rain.

Would have thought we never left the monsoons

behind with our ancestors, who wept

under banyan trees where they belonged,

all their beauty bandaged like a broken arm.