Timothy Murphrey
CHAOS THEORY
Sylphina,
the disturbance you caused without knowing
I feel on my island,
destined accidental, at the pleasure of turbulence
because you arched your back
and moved us.
A fluttering, delicate distance
our meeting is tossed
to the whim of many miles.
Your sweet breath is not linear
making small changes,
a tropical system
set in place by formulae unsolved
and moving, moving, always a whirlwind
stirring in motion.
The wind touched land, and it was drastic
in its embrace;
this is how I remember it.
ALTAR BOY
Southern honey is born of bluebells,
a roadside pause along the I-10
where she seemed to take in blooms with something
that travels in the heart, as much as they saw together.
Each passing car knew the blue-violet field and,
seeing them both hungry for everything beautiful,
moved along, a reverent processional, and gave
over to her everything that was hers.
On the other side of bluebells is where the dark
water starts, thin like weak tea at first,
barely able to hide the soft floor beneath cattails,
in and out of reeds and sedges, and gums.
They held hands and pushed calf-deep through flowers
and when they reached water’s edge, she didn’t
ever stop; she waded to the thighs and
in the shadows of cypress, pulled him in and kneeled.
The woman stroked the stringy bark of a tree, and touched him
and it was the perfect place to pray.
Originally from New Orleans, LA, Timothy Murphrey has had poems published in Miller’s Pond, Rectangle, Susquehanna Review, and Ice Box. After thirty years teaching and writing in Alaska, Tim moved back south to a new life, new love, new adventures, and new poems.