Leveler Poetry Journal
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A Climate of Temperatures

I feel my body warmth

still clinging to the glossy cloth

as I slip my nightgown off.

The Aztecs almost had it right.

Fire and ice at the whim of the sun.

If not worship or propitiation

at least a clamor of wonder,

as chaos and tenderness

press their insistence against

the skin.  The water in my tub

offers comfort in a life

already ripe with breakfast for two.

Far away blood-red,

or neighbor-near, a cry, shrill

as a peacock’s, slides through the cracks,

through walls too thin to lend me

shelter.  I step from the bath,

and wrap myself, watchful, alert

to the maneuvers of the sun.

Peggy Aylsworth