Zachary Jean Chartkoff
works as a hospice nurse in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
He is putting the finishing touches on the second edition of A Blazon of Sand and Moon: the Duende Poems of Federico Garcia Lorca, his translations of the great Andalusian master’s Gypsy ballads (published through Lulu.com).
He lives with his wife and three cats.
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The Body at Play
Clothes tossed to the floor. You throb—throb—with your
left hand you grab the sheets, cry, bite your right
to kill your cry. How these abused bones, poor
old skin, try to sing! The noise of delight,
hum of the body at play. Once I might
have thought it a cry of pain or anger.
Perhaps . . . once. Now I too make it. Tonight.
Because no one else is here; no eager
Urizen son; no willing Albion daughter.
Because you are not here to hear me tease
awake my uprooted root; this splendor
that still slumbers. Does this small act displease?
Friend, there is nothing small about this act.
It turns night day, God godless, love abstract.
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