The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Kim Cope Tait
And so we gather our things
to make the journey across the ocean
and over land to where the twigs
and grasses are already gathering
and from which we will build
our nest. Our friends wave goodbye
and understand the gravity
that means we will never truly
leave the Island behind us.
It is a gathering of hours
that draws us onward, pulls
us home again, and even in the
deepest white of winter,
we carry Pele in our hearts
where she smolders the million
mirrors that enrapture us
with our own brilliant light.
Divine creatures that crawl
the space between heaven
and earth, we: animated
temples of the gods, oh! How
can there not be peace on earth—
or at least in Vermont?
A thirty-year-old son lies under the green canopy of night
counting the unmemories of his father as they rise
and fall to the earth heavily. Like boats, light
on the upswing and leaden, grievous on the backside
of a thick-spined wave. Here they sink into the soil
with the heaviness of sins unnamable. Unforgivable.
In his mind's eye: his own son, his wife. A perfect foil
for the truth of recollection. Family reinvented, pliable,
full of the potential of what is new. This vision: every
promise lovingly wrapped in his father's silk tie:
unraveled navy blue with four turquoise diamonds, three
looping circles. Eyes or fish eggs. And the broad sky—
gray. All gently lowered into the flower bed near the fence
alongside his brother's parakeet, stiff and green in its innocence.
Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication