Galaxy

You order fancy sprinkles
off the Internet. Twenty bucks
for a small jar of bright glitter

and when they come in,
you sail away into the kitchen,
gathering cosmic dusts:

sifted flour, cocoa solids,
granulated sugar, a scatter of salt,
and other celestial bodies:

yellow yolks like suns,
a milky way of cream and vanilla,
soft butter, drops of color.

You poured this batter of starstuff
into a pan black as space
then the long heat, the longer cooling,

until you finished with
a glossy blue-black glaze
and your jar of sprinkles

and finally, you cut a wedge
to reveal brilliant colors:
the swirling nebula within,

handed me a fork
and asked me what I thought:
this cake is so much like you,

until the first sweet bite,
I never knew I could taste stars.

— Adam Kamerer


Behind The Scenes

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-- Adam Kamerer

Pennies from Heaven

I find pennies on the asphalt
and on the hardest days,
now and then, a dime

and once when the world
was falling on itself
the bright disc
of a silver half-dollar.

Every time, I drop the coins
into the palm of your hand
and you drop the coins
into a jar of blue glass
and pay me for my scavenging
with the whisper of a smile.

I have come to require
this secret pleasure so often
my eyes are always at the ground.

-- Adam Kamerer

Moats

The rain coming down
has filled up the ditch
at the edge of the yard.

A little more and it will
swallow up the driveway
and separate us
from the world
by a little gulf
of brown rain water.

As a child I used to dig
moats around the castles
I built out of pinecones
and tin cans and pour
pailfuls of water into them.

They never held water:
drought thirsty Alabama dirt
sucked every drop down
and just left muddy damp divots
and I’m pretty sure the ditch
at the edge of the yard
will dry up just the same

but for the moment
I am alone with you
pretending this old house
is a castle overgrown with moss
and the drawbridge is up
so no one can disturb us.

-- Adam Kamerer

Asleep Through Storms

This morning starts with downpour.
No gentle bloom of sun beam
through the bedroom window,
no chirrup and warble of bird song.

This morning starts with flash
and thunder, with crash and clamor,
with the great old pine in the yard
groaning in the wind,
but you sleep through it
and I do not.

The room is dark
and the rain drives down
and the shape of your body
twisted in the sheets
is a stillness the world
forgot to keep this morning.

I want you to know this
is how I think of you often:
a moment of rest in deluge,
a moment of peace in cloudburst,
a quiet in the shouting gale.

-- Adam Kamerer

What Happens To Me When You Laugh

What happens to me when you laugh: my lips desire
your laughing lips; my hands desire your skin beneath them;
my mouth all of your playful mouth.

Your laughter unwinds the knots in my limbs,
it softens the hardness calcified on these poets’ bones,
your laughter shushes my nervous belly gnawing.

You laugh and all the worries of my world fall away.

-- Adam Kamerer

Sevenling: Waterfalls

I want to take you to all my favorite waterfalls:
the two cascades of Multnomah, the trickle and basin
of Fall Hollow, Falling Rock’s downpour and cavern.

Let me love you with crush and spray,
with crayfish playing in shallows,
with sips of light filtered through limestone.

Climb with me; bathe with me; love me.

-- Adam Kamerer