Cartwheel

No
announcements,
no
invitations
sent:
only
a
captive
audience
of
one
is
present.

She
reminisces
of
girlish
days,
of
tennis
and
softball
games,
and
moving
steadily
from
place
to
place.

Balanced,
now,
like
an
acrobat
finding
her
niche,
she
tantalizes
her
audience
like
a
strand
of
sweet
red
licorice.

Motion;
she
sways
from
left
to
right,
her
slight
waist
bending,
extending
one
hand,
and
now
the
other;
her
legs
a
wishbone,
a
wish
in
mid-air
and
emotion;

and
a
vow
of
vivacity
as
she
nails
down
this
twist
turn
tumble
of
a
wonder
spun
stunner.


--Boris Victor Stecko

Un-uttered Desire

Sitting alone, quietly, inside
Imagined walls, sipping cappuccino,
Wishing I could burn a cigarette or two,

I am lost in the winged fanfare
Of your laughter; in your every nuance,
Your every easy movement I wander jubilant,

Destroyed. Daydreams have risen
To luxurious depths of skin and soul.
My mind is a circle spinning around

And around infinitely, doomed
To a curved perfection, equidistant
Always from its axis, always spinning.

Partition

Were you startled by the suddenness
Of the face in the window,
Passing by slowly, expressionless,
Yet every desire directed toward you?
But the window, the clear
Pane inside the fragile frame, numb
To the touch, and fogged, slightly,
To avoid unwelcome peering,
Stays unopened, closed off
From elements, both glorious
And harsh; stays sealed
When the world offers a breeze;
Remains flat and undisturbed.

There is a boy a few feet away
And he has a stone.


--Boris Victor Stecko

"I'm Strong to the Finish . . . .

. . . cause I eats me spinach."

The Canary

The morning sun is broken;
Shadow lines
Fall across the cage,
Its prisoner a yellow extreme
Of song and flutter.

The soft feathers
Inspire dreams of flight,
And cold golden bars
Taper them.
Is it a complaint? No,

It is ecstasy
In your voice
Thrashing through and beyond
The thin metal wires
Surrounding you.


--Boris Victor Stecko

Mockingbirds

“Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy.”

--Harper Lee

The music from the radio
Fills the room with soft sound.
My arms around your waist
Draw you near
As you stroke smoothly my hair.

We are enthusiasts yet strangers of intimacy.
It is amazing how one embrace
Can carry us through the day;
How the warmth of bodies
Lays to rest a cold season.

There is a picture in my head
Of a little, lonely girl
Who wandered schoolyards by herself
And rode high on boundless swings
To sing and soar with mockingbirds.

And now you sing to me
In the light voice that I love:
“Alberta, I’ll bring you more gold
Than your apron can hold.”
My voice rises in glad harmony.


--Boris Victor Stecko

Hearts and Bones

In the sparkling arms
Of someone new,
We are novices,
Once again ivory, blossomed
From deepest blue.

Your gray eyes, open,
And hungry like thieves
Seize me
In a whispered glance,
The hush we weave

In a moonlit room
At the edge of dawn
And isolation.
This brief communion
Of hearts and bones, drawn

From passages of time, simply,
Enchants our young minds,
Strengthening resolve.
We hold each other
Inside the swelling sunshine.


--Boris Victor Stecko

Granite

Odd, she said, how routines
Can ruin you, can run

The life right out
Of a body that tingled

Once, that hummed.
Funny, she said, how eccentricities

I loved are burdensome, are
Tedious. Leave me to my own

Devices. Curiosity lies
Dormant like the house cat it killed,

She said. And then she said
Her arms were numb

Around me, her lips
Were dead, were granite.

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