Friday, April 14, 2017

"My bedroom window is always cracked open" by John C. Mannone, Frequent Contributor

My bedroom window is always cracked open
John C. Mannone

even on winter nights
when cold seizes night
like icicles piercing air
and thin window glass
bears all the rasp of wind,
its tongue slipping
between sill and frame,
            I am safe
from the stark, hardwood
floors that creak under
slipper-steps corralling
the dark. In my pajamas,
spindled legs curl
under cowhide covers
mottled like Hereford.
I can feel the weight
of hooves press me into
soft sheets, into prairie
mattress, into cowboy
dreams where stampede
of wind is only a tame
cool breeze and a wolf
with no bite.

Poet’s Notes: This is a reminiscence when I was a young boy living in Baltimore. Mother kept those heavy cowhide blankets matted full of cow hair bought in Argentina in a trunk at the foot of my bed. I could almost write about that trunk, decorated with black leather and studded like a saddle. Smell of cedar on the inside. I was always warm, but the room felt like an icebox on these winter mornings, and I was reticent to slip out from under those warm covers to the cold as hell air and wooden floor.

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