Stone, Air & Woman

I am gentle
as if this stone 
is a woman—I caress 
the cold air that hovers 
just in front of 
this couch. I imagine 
my wife, who sleeps 
in the next room, whose
flower is hidden. I am afraid 
that she has forgotten 
me, eight months since 
the birth of our first 
two children. I was 
a husband; now, I am 
a father forming 
stone in my hands, yet 
it could be a woman’s 
body. My wife’s body
feels like air, stones
laden with memory,
a cool breath of what 
used to be skin. I form
the shape of stone
in my hands, hoping
this air will
return to woman.

Timothy Kercher has spent the last six years overseas—four years in Tbilisi, Georgia and two in Kyiv, Ukraine—and is now living in Dolores, Colorado where he continues to translate contemporary poetry from Georgia. He is a high school English teacher and has worked in five countries overseas—Mongolia, Mexico, and Bosnia being the others. His poems and translations have been nominated for a number of awards, including the Pushcart, and have appeared or are forthcoming in a number of recent literary publications, including: Crazyhorse, Fourteen Hills, Blackbird, Bateau, Toad Suck, and others.