were a body
of water. Swimming
where your hot and cold and always
blue currents circulate, I drowned
out the seagulls’ starved shouting
by dud-torpedo-plunging down—only
I was alive and combustible. I touched you—
I touched upon a body
of knowledge: how sea-
weed trembles, fish
scales flash, moon phases
out with depth—I learned
to fathom those depths.
When sunrise flecks the facets of
your body, the fiery palette
knife knifing each ripple,
I think I’ve learned all. This morning,
full up with the aerosol
coolness laughing off the surf,
I showed you a body
of evidence: combustible, naked, unsealed. At last
light the pages lit ablaze. Kissing:
the dropping ashes and the water’s dark glass.
But soon as stars were breaching
whales, surfacing upside
down, spouting bright jets to illuminate
you in your stillness,
in your vastness you were lost.
Tonight, as body
of nothing, as body
merely, looking for the moon in you,
I feel you and I feel you.
–
J Kramer Hare hails from Pittsburgh, PA. He is a rock-climber, jazz-head, Best of the Net nominee, and volunteer critic with Pencilhouse. Look for his latest work in Rust and Moth, Magpie Zine, and the Dawn Review. You can find him at kramerpoetry.com.
© 2025, J Kramer Hare
Halfway Down the Stairs 