At, at the flying school the horses
are mastering the take-off,
but there are problems with perching:
even if they find a foothold, the branch
will break. The kiwis and ostriches,
enrolled in the workshop on roots,
are rediscovering their heritage.
Down in the Novices’ section
an oyster whispers, “I want to soar.”
The resident angel folds his wings
and touches the rough shell.
“First, learn to feel
your flesh’s cool weight
nestled in its silky cup,
the sea pressing against your sides,
the brine filtering through your valves.
Now, at your center, find
the gray light sending beams
in all directions smooth as glass,
so smooth—see?—you can slip on them,
just a little bit, side to side.
Now your flesh, your valves, the sea
begin to dissolve. Watch the light.
You begin to rise.”
“Yes, yes,” whispers the pupil,
moving its concrete wings.
Yes, there is so much to be depressed about:
The world—the whole damned flower pot going sour
All the sperm and eggs doomed never to scramble together
This bottle of Chablis “not to be refilled”
Nevertheless let’s finish it
And try to think about the heaven
Music goes to after it is played
And these forsythias cut early
Brought inside to bloom
Like King Louie’s head that rolled from the block
And winked at the crowd.
We are sitting by the fire after supper.
She, the mother, hems a blanket;
I, the father, stare into the fire I have built;
The girl is giving all Noah’s animals a grand picnic;
The little boy hangs over a drawing
Slackjaw’d with concentration, surrounded by crayolas.
Then I see, sitting beside me,
My father, ten years dead;
I reach for his hand: “I want you to see the children!—
I want to show you the papers I’ve written, and my pictures!—”
He smiles, “No, no, it’s late now,
You must come along with me.”
I try to hold back but can’t,
So I give him a tight hug and find
I fit into his arms like a child,
But then I see it is not my father,
It is me, holding my little boy,
Saying, “Please, just a little longer.”
© Leonard Trawick
Used by permission