Chris Wheeler March Poet

familiars

 The day arrived
when the darkness crept in
like a lame animal
and wrapped itself
round my feet in repose.
It sighed, and I sighed,
and I put out
a plate of leftovers
and let it stay the night.

quiet

Riddle me this, my love,
When will you be still?
For then, over naked fields
after the harvest
of all things,
I may see you as you are.

Oh let me be thin

the walls of the flesh that bind me

narrowing to a razors edge

for the sky is sweet

and I want to go home

bow down

When the sunset is redder than blood

and everything is known by its shadow,

When the hills raise their hackles

and the trees blacken into voids,

always

a golden circlet

crowns the horizon,

bends with the bowing,

serene in its duty

to adorn the forehead

of a fading monarch.

nestling

I woke today

to scrabbling in the nest,

an irresistible urge

to leap.

In looking past the edge

of all I knew

I saw a vast expanse,

alive and impossible,

and in taking a lungful of it

I knew that

embracing air

was all it would take.

So I woke to the world,

I woke to the sky,

and I took it as it stood:

empty and full.

In climbing to its back

I spread my wings

and met the ground

violently,

like an old friend.

And I knew I could

never walk again.

nadia

dark and sweet

perpetually suspicious

she squalls, a tiny finger

wrapped around

mine:

a suture to my scar

a judgment on the world

an acceptance of it

curiosity

hunger

the sound of life

is protest.

call and response

I believe in the power of the broken
to attract,
like blooms, precarious
on the stem. They cast
nectar-sweet lines to passing bees,
fluted stanzas on a summer’s day.

Pass me by
if you will,
but it will do your heart good
to shelter here
and sip
the bitter with the sweet.

snuffed

If I had no words,
if silence crept to my lips
and placed its finger to them,
if darkness filled my hands,
pressed down, shaken together
and running over, if I could
never see again,
would I
still love you?

whole

I wonder some days

if wholeness will drop like a pebble

into my palm, and if it does,

whether it will have been

tumbled to satin,

mined from an untouched vein,

or pock-marked by volcanic heat?

I think it might be sharp-edged

enough to draw blood,

clear and cold as ice,

beautiful and hard.

And I think I might close my fist

around it and never let go.

Chris Wheeler is a poet and storyteller from northwest Indiana. He receives inspiration from the rural landscape of Indiana, his experiences as a father, and his faith. In January 2020 he released his first full-length book of poetry, SOLACE: POEMS FOR THE BROKEN SEASON. His work has also found a home at Barren Magazine, Fathom, Kingdoms in the Wild, The Rabbit Room, and Foundling House, among others. He lives in Middlebury, IN in his childhood home, with his wife and five children. He posts micropoetry regularly on Instagram @solace_poems. You can purchase his book on Amazon, or read more at www.chriswheelerwrites.com.