| the living room
Young
eyes peered
through cuts of lace
Ecru voile behind the still piano
Strings
stretched
out of key
like his suckling hope.
My child, my son.
He
stood, a monolith
in a space where
indigo blue lines had marked
his
living room
Sketched, rolled and
dropped
into a drawer.
Expectant
ears like
brides at altar wait
Open-eyed his giving cups
pound the
empty tables.
And still he looks
for headlights in the drive.
The
dogs will bark
beside the row of postal boxes
The rattle of the foreigner
They'll
stalk the square-eyed truck
its growling throat
its smoggy musk
Tonight
the dogs will bark.
An open window puffs the folds
of
lace like hollowed cheeks
around a cigarette.
Yes, your hair looks right
he'll
notice how you've grown
and Yes, he will be proud
My child, my son.
This
is where he waits father
This is where he turned fourteen
When night had
fallen to the ground
and fireflies had given up their post
He waits
My
child, my son
My fatherless son.
Mia Moore
|
