The Wind Carries Memory

In this house, where so many
children were stillborn,
ghosts slobber and roar.

These are my siblings,
reflections of the fierce
and wild storms of my heart.

They crash about the kitchen,
sending chairs flying,
overturning the table,
ripping the doors from their hinges.

Their sorrow is beyond forgetting.
They will never love, never dream.
Yet I will hold them always,
or until they are erased
by the wind.

Wolf Moon Dreams

Countless years of
lard and shadows wrestle
to shed the lies that blind.

Ogres bursting with
unspeakable sins, fiends
pulsing with audacious crimes.

Quasimodo's children are praying
in the shyest of whispers.
Not for forgiveness,
but acceptance.

David Kowalczyk lives and writes in the one-stoplight cannery town of Oakfield, New York. He has taught English in South Korea and Mexico as well as at Arizona State University. His poetry and fiction have appeared in seven anthologies and over one hundred journals and magazines, including The Buffalo News, California Quarterly, Maryland Review, and St. Ann's Review. He was founding editor of the late Gentle Strength Quarterly.

2004-2009 Underground Voices