" Remains "
what separates us, father
is your love
for dead things...
wings, that can’t fly
bodies, that can’t change
at an early age, you taught me
the art of being still
while you spread your shadow
over anything that moved
and i practiced old, black magic
learned to hold my breath, for years...
now, you beg to claim the exhale
in half-whispered rattles
but they remind me of nights
when i shook beneath covers
afraid of being captured
by chloroform hands
i’m not coming, father
with that gift of fresh air
and what use are all my dark spells
when true magic is light
but i’ll conjure you this moment
as something flutters past my eyes
eyes you’ll never see
blink
for dead things.
© 2003 NC
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