The letter arrives Monday.
My seventeen-year-old bones struggle
up the seventy-year-old oak tree;
I select a branch and perch,
tear open the envelope, and wrench
out the note. His immaculate words bleed together.
Dear Liza if you’ve gotten this it means I’m
dead.
I feel the electric reverb
at the apex of every extremity.
The other letters bear nothing, even words
I relished before are hollow: Love, Charlie.
I swallow, I freeze. And then
I’m on uneven ground.
Everything’s a dream. Mother
hovers; I tilt my head
back and he’s there.
Tossing stones into the slight pond,
beaming at me as if he never left.
The sun’s bright as Charlie’s smile –
I have to blink.
And he’s gone
as quickly as he appeared.
My surroundings become vague,
and somehow severe,
like Escher. I am lost in the curves,
the angles, the impossible geometry
of my surroundings.
Despite sincere effort,
I can’t move, paralyzed
by a dream; but I’m not delirious,
gazing up at the heavens,
mouthing nonsense.
For a moment, my eyes flutter shut
and Charlie returns,
Smiling as always.
No comments:
Post a Comment