The stutter of wings maddens
the air there. Come tell me again.
The cradle has rocked, double
time: again grease goes dirty
into drains and heads toward
a miracle, the ticking hour saying
Goodbye all that, goodbye.
It's June, month of fathers.
Mine has taken his books
into heaven. I can't make
the vibration that would let me
tell him everything's fine here.
At the end, I said farewell
and mixed a formula for grief. The pattern
did not hold; it was all wave
and crest. Simultaneity. I needed
proof and then there were poppies
blowing everywhere, their red
regret holding onto the soil's
forgiveness. If only the rules
were beautiful notes.
But some music reaches only
the patient. Some music is eccentric
and false to every ear. The hasp
of time holds fast: he will
not sing me down again.
©
's third book of poems, Civil Twilight, will be published by Carnegie Mellon University Press in early 2012. Recent poems have appeared in Copper Nickel, Tar River Poetry, Crab Orchard Review, Anti-, DIAGRAM, and Cincinnati Review. She teaches at the Educational Center for the Arts, Southern Connecticut State University, and Quinnipiac University.
Schilpp’s poem “Firsts” also appears in this issue.
