Transfiguration

At home, sequestered in his room,

ears headphoned, eyes fixed on

his laptop computer screen; in his

classes at the community college,

getting his basics out of the way;

at work, waiting tables for tips—

in so much of life, he’s merely

human, if even that–but in the gay

club after hours, when the DJ cranks

the music, a little drunk, a little high,

he sheds his mortality along with

his shirt and dances his way

through the glittering lights

into the realm of gods.

 

Copyright 2018

T. Allen Culpepper

 

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The Skeleton Dance

Death crawls behind my eyes

like darkness seeping from the end

of the tunnel that drains the light

of day away at dusk and blackens

it for night, pulling down the sun

and sucking its stellar siblings into airless

voids that snuff out their lambent fires;

but then my dilating pupils draw in

the rising moon that makes death’s

frail bones glow white, its bleached teeth

grinning from cheekbone to cheekbone

as it resurrects itself, tilts back its skull,

and rattles its feet into the dance.

 

Copyright 2017

T. Allen Culpepper

Puddle Dance

Raindrop circles dance

to nature’s disco rhythm

round the clear, wet floor

formed by a streetside puddle

after a spring shower,

flashed by stoplight strobes,

layered by passing headlights;

a movie-still scene

framed by window glass,

the sound turned down, the action

viewed from a cafe table

set for tea and scones.

Copyright 2015

T. Allen Culpepper