THE SHADOWS OF CHILDREN ON SWINGS

Their shadows have become entangled,
their limbs thrown flat against a broad wall
of sunlight, rising and rising, as if they were never
coming down again, as if flight and motion
were as essential as their own breath and blood,
these groaning knots of metal releasing them,
unharmed, into the open expanse of air.
They are tied, in this moment, only to the sky,
their bird-like bodies suddenly beyond our reach,
the chains holding them having become
ladders, lengthening ropes thrown into a future
unseen, but strong enough to hold them,
the shrieks of their laughter a language
of energy, easily understood between them.
Their shadows have become entangled,
their voices converging into one, demanding
only this day, this world, or nothing at all.

SNAPSHOT FROM MY MOTHER'S WEDDING

 

My brother stands just outside the door frame,

a small coffee cup in hand, while I sit on a folding chair,

thin and lanky in a too-big secondhand suit,

hunched forward, scribbling in a moss-colored notebook.

Neither of us particularly wants to be here -- though

of course we cannot say -- the pastel carnations pinned

to our chests belying our expressionless faces.

Our mother is marrying for the third time -- this time

to a good old boy from south Texas who no one

cares for or trusts more than the weather here in spring.

This was before he spit her name out like a curse,

his hands having become more menace than comfort,

and certainly before he held a shotgun to her head,

threatening to paint the wood-paneled walls with whatever

thoughts and dreams she might have left inside her;

and it's a few years before my brother lifted him

by the neck, dangling like a scarecrow in stocking feet,

eyes popping like buttons, holding him there calmly,

steadily, breathing hard but slowly, until our sister's shouts

convinced him to at last let go, allowing him to fall.

But this is not that moment; this is merely a snapshot

of that young man, having found a quiet corner

for a moment, writing his way towards all he cannot

know, his left hand curling above the page, pale sunlight

filtered from another room, hovering like smoke.