William Ste. Marie’s Poetry

Mar 30, 2016 by

William Ste. Marie’s Poetry



Not everything like a stomach ache,
Only things that I didn’t know about,
the things I couldn’t look for.
Not suede in the rain,
but city awnings.
Not sleazy girly magazines,
real power, levitation,
lifting and moving furniture.
branches of a tree,
not glue or chains.

A year,
not winter, summer, spring or fall.
Bus rides, boat rides, car rides,
No horse drawn carriage.
Not like television radio, or daydreams,
things I haven’t known.

Strange, scary, to be on pins and needles that you sew,
in fear of the clock’s hands reaching too far.
Strange to worry about days that aren’t yours.
Interviews you won’t dress for.
Families you hardly know.

Sure, it would rain that first day,
no leather, no umbrellas,
we found refuge
in a tiny red bench.
That day we felt as though we left our belongings there,
but we didn’t have anything then.


A Brush of Warmth


Soft shadow
a moment of fur.
sunlight pierces small slit eyes
your ears borrowed from an older self
are clumsily folded back.
Your mouth,
too small to be fed,
the hair beneath your nose,
like five o’clock shadow
has not quite arrived.

Like any traveler, your body welcomes that first rest,
the first embrace embarking in a new world,
the only world known to man,
to animals.

Your chin is perched up towards the warmth,
towards the sensation of two.
I hold a new life in my hands,
A walking seed, a miniature world.
I can feel your small vibrations,
your rumbling breath.
So slick, unmarked apart from your markings.

Your chin eclipsed by my thumb,
I carefully pass through your silk.
you form to my hand,
my shirt, your bed sheets.
and the thumb slows,
and the breathing calms.

William Ste. Marie—an English teacher and musician from Staten Island, New York—is an insufferable, mawkish mush who sometimes writes.  

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