|Jul/Aug 2007 Poetry|
Childhood's Recurring Dream
Battlegrounds, betrayals, sought proof
of miracles: were there patches of ice on the sea he walked on.
You wear power lightly, a sheathe of light
like a leaf touching time. Look to the trees, then. Blue, she said
softly, blue. And somebody stitched up the sky, a girl and her piano.
They sing of a man and a gun
as birds nibble the quieting rain. I clasp air like memory, asking,
is there room in the wild for one more wish.
The dream, it recurs, the one where I'm not crying anymore.
Wherein I am more than a guess. And the ugly is suddenly beautiful: can one wish
render a difference, a crosshatch of reflection on water?
The dead gull is surrounded by wingbeats of light. I am a chance, taken,
an instant of unthinkable, indefinable wind.
Stunned by a highrise of loveliness, I brush scattered tealeaves
from the astrologer's encrypted note, smudging the ink.
I only want a way into this world.
Blue, she says: blue. And I begin weeping on the playground again.