Luke DeLalio

POETRY

Painting and photo by the author: “The Loveshack in Prague”

Lover
Lick my back
The lonely wind you are
Finding me
On a dreamy threshold
Late after a day of kissing everyone
And slaloming through trees
Sit on my sill
And see my poor old body without judgment
Come meet me where I’m still young:
Where hope is still supple and unlined
Floating o’er my hopeless knees

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POETRY

A poem

photo by the author

To be as much in love as those two
Such that they’re spun together
By an unseen but kind hand
Mixed and inseparable
Water and soil after weeks of April rain

And then there’s walking
Stepping in puddles
Jumping from dry spot to dry spot
An umbrella so huge as to cover the…

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POETRY

photo of the author by the author

The past is a dog or a cat

Or both

The dog you can call over by crouching, patting the rug in front of you

The cat stalks around the house
And if it spots you
It might come over
It might let you rub its head
And it might purr
And then drive its teeth into your hand
Running off

Later it’s lying on the bolster of the couch
Its tail keeping time to some inner music
Staring at you
Daring you to come over and remember

The dog pads up
And leans on your leg

There is the past that’s simple
And the past that’s tangled

The cat readjusts and yawns
The dog rolls over and offers its belly

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POETRY

photo by the author

To find beauty in this day
Is to walk towards the sunrise
Knowing it is behind the clouds
That ugly houses
House beautiful people
And every car that passes
Is driven by a fragile organic ball of doubts and hopes that might or might not survive till sunset

Why isn’t that enough to keep your mind from picking at the scabs of things nobody remembers but you?

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SHITTY FATHER POETRY

photo by the author

A memory today of my son
Maybe 13?
Behind the closed door of his room doing exercises
Push-ups? Squats? Something of his own design?

What did someone say to him at school? What girl did he like? What display of incompetence in the gym?

He would tell me of sports he invented, and his mastery of them

For some of us, there is this moment where we know we’re stuck
Battling a part of us that despises us

Where we are alone forever
Behind the door of that room
Shut to even people that love us more than they love themselves

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POETRY

photo by the author

A certain awkwardness
In newish shoes
Which get pulled out and put on
When hopes are high and expectations…
Expectations are exciting

I think her name was Caroline
She of the shy sideways smile
Her shoulder against mine

But whatever else went up into the sky on an Indiana night
A bird flushed from its hiding place
The wisps of smoke from the fire
Laughter, and words you can’t quite make out
Blond hair cascades over the collar of her cardigan
And the strange way she’d say my name

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POETRY, KIND OF

photo by author

I think I’m becoming a better human being.

I just passed a homeless woman who had her pants half down, taking a shit against a wall off 3rd Ave in New York City. And my first impulse was to hold her hand so she could better balance. My second impulse was to somehow screen her — to give her some privacy.

Someday, and I hope soon, I’ll act on those impulses, rather than walk by and think them.

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Luke DeLalio

Luke DeLalio

Artsie and loquacious, Luke hangs out at the intersections of humor and regret, ambition and ambivalence, please more wine and jeez I need to lose weight.