For Eric 

I told you not to write me a poem

And I hope you didnšt

I wanted to write one for you

Just for you

Išve had a long time to get this done

After all, I knew two months ago

That Valentinešs Day would come

Here I am though, struggling at 9:30

I never really thought it could happen to me

Love (Being in it) not because Išm not worthy

Or anything, mostly because Išm lazy

Yet this whole experience has been effortless

One day I had no idea who you were

And now, I canšt imagine not knowing everything

Paris and the rest of Europe

To Do lists galore

Driving to nowhere

Stopping the car to take a picture

A reflection of a strangeršs house

An abandoned building

Feeding the cat

Opening the windows

Folding what seems like 300 plain white t-shirts

All things I love

But none of them as much as I love you

Unlike writing a poem for a poet

Loving you is no struggle at all


by Kari C.



The choir on the altar is singing about God

but they are not as holy as

the hands

two rows in front of me.

I can't see their faces,

only white hair and stooping backs.

But what matters is their hands:


gently drapes her shoulder


reaches effortlessly for his,

so that they are no longer

his or hers.

Hands a rippling mountain range

of wrinkles and blue veins

gained through a lifetime of living.

Those hands:

have cradled new life

have toiled long hours,

have built a place to live,

have dug graves,

but always together,

even when not.

Hands that hold with the eagerness of fresh lovers

and the peace of old friends.

Those hands two rows in front of me,

they are only hands.

But they are all we are looking for,

all we are frantic to find.


By me: Kelly Staskel



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