Borgau by Christine Yurick


We are staying in that little apartment above the pizzeria
and have been roaming the dry mountains like goats. It did not rain
for almost a month and we are both dark from all of that sun
and high from the fresh air and lazy from all of the beauty.
The waves hit the brown-orange cliff.
The sheer blue curtain billows in the wind
brushing my cheek in the room where we make love.
The waves come in and go out again.

by Christine Yurick

Editor’s Note: The conversational tone of this poem welcomes the reader into its vivid imagery.

From the archives – The Ring — Christine Yurick


The Ring

I want to stop that moment and live it again,
Only slower, your fingers grasping my hand.

You asked to see my ring; a stealth excuse
So subtly conceived; our hands were there now, level
With your desk, that picture of you and some she.
All I knew of you: a divorce, but now no ring.

Like the rays of light streaming in my window;
Arriving home my thoughts would not forget how
Your fingers grasped my hand. I could have taken
Off the ring, held it up for you to see.

Your mind and mine were level, you found an excuse
For that which we both desired but could
Not name, like the light breaking through my window,
That one should know its source through an object.

Like a simple ring, or the lack of one—
Wanted but not known, felt but withdrawn

from Autumn Sky Poetry 20 — by Christine Yurick

Photo by Christine Klocek-Lim