Skip to content

Your Hands, Like Discarded Feathers

 

That morning, you told me
you were terrified of poetry

as a child.

You told me stories
of vines, stories of the things

that continue to remain. I spent
the following days imaging

the dark circles

left in the woods
behind your house,

looking in.

 

*

 

They were like tall flowers, bruised
in the sunlight, darker from dawn to dusk,

repeating.

I asked you many questions.
Still, the story returned: your hands,

like mounted birds,

your hands,

like leftover fields that

could never stop turning.

 

*

 

You pictured me
in a carnival-esque setting, circa 1946.

You never explained why, but
I could imagine: the gray tones,

the dust, the leftover pollen
from what could only have been

cremation.

 

*

 

These are thoughts I left you with,
your mother and father,

their bodies spinning in orbit

like a cloud,

like nothing more than a disintegrating sunset,

the receding tide, reaching

for whatever comes next.

Writing about receding stars.

 

 

Share
Published inBlogging & PoemsMy Poems

Be First to Comment

Leave a Reply