four priests
	
	four priests pray the city block
	marching four sidewalks in time
	pirouetting the corners at once,
	guarding the nameless building.

	with rosaries wrapped to tight
	fists, they offer deep low prayers.
	ghosts fear the black robes, refuse to pass
	but we pass, you and i; holy sweat on your skin,
	    my sugar in your belly.

 

 

	winter garden
	
	when the devil kissed my sister
	i had my feet up on the couch
	drinking from a frosted glass.
	he always smiled with kind eyes
	pouring the coke, more
	foam than coke.

	cracking jokes
	laughing before the punch-line
	his fat hands spread over his slick belly;
	he rubbed his back against the door frame
	to reach the itch,
	animal against tree.

	two sailors put white powder in her drink
	and she woke up only briefly to see
	them on top of her, one after the other;
	maybe 2? maybe 3? maybe more? afterward
	she cut off her locks and stopped eating.

	and when i chopped wood for the old lady
	my hands were prickly from the cold.
	i loved her winter garden; losing myself
	i took frequent breaks, she made me coffee
	and i walked the rock terraces
	pretending behind the trees.

	the old lady knitted me a purple afghan
	and the farmer next door told stories
	of how when she was young
	and her husband still lived
	that she would meet him at his plough
	hike up her skirt
	and climb him in the field.

	the red door was closed, so
	i returned to the table
	sat down with my coke
	wrapped my hand around the glass
	feeling the stinging.

 

 

Andrew K. Clark is a writer of poetry and fiction. He was born in Biloxi, Mississippi and grew up in Asheville, North Carolina. His poems have been published in the Miscellany Magazine as well as The Ogeechee Review. He lives in Savannah, Georgia with his wife Renee, and two children: Elijah and Natalie.