Joseph
She told me, through tears: Not mine.
I didn’t ask whose. What difference
could it make? Her uncle had sworn
she was pure, but it is easy
to keep secrets from indulgent family.
I like children. Enough to raise
another man’s son? I know
how old I am, how young she is.
How beautiful. I am no rabbi, no tzaddik1.
No idiot, so when she swears she is
a virgin, I pretend to believe. What harm
can come of this little pretense?
[1] A holy man, a person of exceptional righteousness
Shadow
My cat has mastered liminality.
He exists on the border, neither
inside nor outside, but both, or perhaps
neither. In the coldest weather, he wants
to stand by an open door,
contemplating a future in which
he is free, self-reliant, and chilly;
a present in which he is expected
to use litter boxes and eat dead,
crunchy chunks; a past with
no warm body to snuggle.
Decisions, decisions. How long
can he make me stand
by that open door when it is
below freezing outside?
Is that the test of my patience
and devotion? Or is it just him
being his truest self, both
in the world and outside it, observing?
Until 2003, David M. Harris had never lived more than fifty miles from New York City. Since then, he has moved to Tennessee, acquired a daughter and a classic MG, and gotten serious about poetry. His work has appeared in Pirene’s Fountain (and in First Water, the Best of Pirene’s Fountain anthology), Gargoyle, The Labletter, The Pedestal, and other places. His first collection of poetry, The Review Mirror, was published by Unsolicited Press in 2013. He is on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/david.m.harris1.