by Jacob Friesenhahn
His hair shines black
through blonde highlights.
He is slight of build
but suddenly muscular
when the angle is right.
If he smiles, life loves me after all.
If he scowls, I have no chance.
His brown hands wave above
the deck with what I admit is grace.
His painted nails flash blue to black
and back.
His hands appear soft
so long as they hover
but grow hard every time
they touch a card.
He speaks of life as one outside,
of death as one immune:
“Give yourself to the wind,
as leaves, as seeds,
uncaring where they land.
Walk not alone but apart,
a hermit born of moonlit hunger,
a fool chasing the sky, already
full of the vastness inside.
“Let go of relics buried under earth;
they are not yours and never were.
Leave this life behind, a forest
on fire, burning itself into dust.
“Tonight, watch as the stars blink
just for you, and the tress bow
down as you pass, casting shadows
that ripple like dripping black ink.
“Feed only on what you cannot
name; let it warm you like milk
and honey, for when you arrive,
you shall know: the earth will
cradle you as she did before,
and your roots will discover
moist dark ground once more.”
Jacob Friesenhahn teaches religious studies and philosophy at Our Lady of the Lake University in San Antonio. His first book of poems is forthcoming from Kelsay Books.