We Give Her a Name
On a Monday night we name her Tegan Elysium Wade and consider the variations: Teegan or Teagan. There’s hope in her name. Faith. Faith. We pray together for her body to meet the spelling, to know the variations. And then she’ll see and hear the middle name, a heaven for the little poet. She is already different and perhaps difficult. But we can’t be certain. We can’t be certain we’ll stay together because we’ve given her name. There’s no certainty in names or labels or the parts where we hold close and decide together there’s no other name. And we love each other and for certain people that’s enough. For certain people there’s nothing in a name. For sure, though, we know her name already. We’re certain we know us.
Chocolate & Drama
On the couch, she sits like a blossom, her fingers pollinated by the bees in her story. Books are stacked inside her. They itch at her skin, trying to get out. Out. Out. The light hovers over her like sorrow. Sorrow hides under the bed. She feeds it cheese and wine. It doesn’t want to come out. Worlds become pebbles strewn across the floor, ants that crawl and wrap her in a black blanket. She longs to go with the ants back into the typewriter. Ride on their backs like an Indian princess into the whitespace, into the damp ringlet on the book’s cover where she once put a tall glass. She wants to push out the walls of her apartment and jump. Return as a sketch, as some character less developed, sweetened by chocolate and drama.
My head rolls down my shoulders like a cat. It hisses and crawls. My head laughs at me from the depths of my stomach. It’s heavy, like a brick. My head runs off into a field of grass, burnt up from the sun and lonely. It’s a lost head on top of an ant hill, worried without the rest of my body. My shoulders are light and my arms pour milk and make eggs. My chest is laughing at my ankles. My ankles are sad because they will never be close to the heart. The head is gone, hiding under a chicken in a barn. It rolls over gravels and stones. It’s in the clouds now. It’s asleep in a tree and dreams of the body tapping its chin.
Loren Kleinman’s poetry has appeared in journals such as Drunken Boat, Nimrod, Wilderness House Literary Review, Paterson Literary Review, Narrative Northeast and Journal of New Jersey Poets. Her interviews appeared in IndieReader, USA Today, and The Huffington Post. She is the author of Flamenco Sketches and Indie Authors Naked, which was an Amazon Top 100 bestseller in Journalism in the UK and USA. Kleinman’s The Dark Cave Between My Ribs was named the best poetry book of 2014 by Entropy Magazine and her third collection release Breakable Things released March 2015 by Winter Goose Publishing. She is currently working on a contemporary romance novel, This Way to Forever. Loren’s website is: lorenkleinman.com.