Therapon, III, 5
5:
…you whose waters never breathe whose
names of coastal cities float across the harbor
save me says a tiny island in the south Pacific
that is no longer there every map one face
across another save me says a ring my father
left behind and so I slip it on so large it falls
like an angel every fetish a mask whose holes
await the living eye who alive is not a child
of the objects in the room save me they say
and then a little monster comes to your door
you give her sweets as is the custom when
death calls you feign surprise empty your fist
into her bag a white slip designed for a pillow…
: 5
…a white veil caught in the apple-tree; no son,
the apple-tree is on fire; no, father, the apple-
tree is blooming; no, son, the wind tangled
a grocery store bag in the branches; no, father,
the white tatter of a skunk’s stripe flew off
through the air like a bandage searching
for a wound; no, son, no. My father never
called me son; I never called him father.
The farther away I get from childhood, the more
the oracle of the side-view mirror chants
its endless truth: objects in the mirror are closer
than they appear. The bee is deep inside the
peony, but so is the beetle. The old barn speaks…
