From a dead fox in a suburban backyard
Do not forget
to address your letter to the absences,
your questions concerning the sky
and the mountain’s destination as it disappears
along with the blue songs
that nest in your nights.
And will I continue to nurse
the silvery nerve of the earth
conducting the first and last
syllable of your name?
To find the silences in there
is to glimpse the falcon in flight
only a few know how to follow
as it collects every angle of emptiness
in order to pull out of its dive
while in an instant, the voice of your infant
gone. Your own breath
broken at both ends.
Algorithm, this suturing and tearing.
Do not bury me in a world of less and less.
Wind and sun will wash me
will dissolve the last scent of milk,
will scatter us into the voices of others.
© Robert S. Pesich, all rights reserved. This poem first appeared in The Bitter Oleander, Vol.14 No.1, Spring, 2008