Wednesday, November 17, 2010

I Would Like To

Father, I would like to love you but the fell
swooping of ravens nearly runs me over. Their
beaks are very sharp and I do not enjoy
their rough hands in the least. Or could I call them
my enemies, my foes and their feet, their claws
so unlike my feet but are they so different?
At times I am looking up at you and suddenly
I worry my feet have clawed and become the very
scratch-makers that write their own name over
and over again on your perfect skin.
I begin to believe my nothingness can overcome
your deafening all. But all
I need sits on your lips

that whistle and the birds drop
dead or gone (I don’t know I don’t care)
and they clear my head and you
are standing here in my heart in a white robe
blinding, your face is
blinding.