by Alec Hershman
I buried my face
in the coats, my face in the wreath
on the door—cinnamon bristles
and the party behind me
warped in ornaments. I felt the cold outside
with my cheek. Outside, the breath
was sharpening into cavalier bouquets
of air where the noisy snow repeated
everything it heard. And inside
gossip spilled like bracelets out of sleeves.
The host, sure enough, was losing her belt
and losing her shoes. Then I thought
I am not here, waiting for no one.
The lead pillow of the liquored other half
of my face is not crashing
horribly, perceptually, into the dessert table.
And in the sober, dark terrain
of the remaining brownies, powdered sugar isn’t
really getting sucked back into the earth
at 3,000 acres a day.
Alec Hershman lives in St. Louis where he teaches Psychology to design students. He has received awards from The Kimmel-Harding-Nelson Center for the Arts, The Jentel Foundation, The St. Louis Regional Arts Commission, and The Institute for Sustainable Living, Art, and Natural Design. You can find links to more of his work at alechershmanpoetry.com.
Hawaii Pacific Review 
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