by Joseph Fasano
I remember the years of our slumber. Someone
had wounded you, and you could not say.
A young man hung above you, in briar.
Years happened. Fire. The wind blew the walls
away. I drifted
in a spruce wood, bluebells matting
the acres. Go to Spain, you
said. I went to Spain. The sea
was white where I traveled. Milk-deep. Brimming
with opal. I smelled the darkening
pines of a mooring, the ripening
cliffs of another. Something was rising
from the fathoms. I thought of rooms at the edge
of a pasture, hornets
dismantling their rafters. Of a dark wave rising
from your body, its music
in my hands, no harbor.
Of the wind, of the word
of your hours, its hand clasped over
its whisper, like a monk in a shattering
cloister. Of the horrible Archer
in the star-lanes, laying his bow
on my whisper.
Of his strength. Of the taste
of his armor. He was No One. He was never
our father.
He was going to shoot me out farther
where I could visit you no more.
Last updated November 24, 2022