Holding My Father Again by Matthew Wimberley
When I take what remains
into the cool night
as if to show how it all goes on
without you, I do it the way
a hawk takes the arc of the moon
under her beak and waits
for sleep. I do it with two hands
so it seems I am holding
something else—a stillborn
fawn carried toward emptiness
under a black sky.
My eyes dismantle the dark—
the trees from the hillside,
the salt rusted truck
from the overgrown grasses
and late wildflowers
still believing in summer.
Opening my mouth
I hear the stars cry
through my throat. I forget
the mechanics of my arms
the motion of freeing the ashes
which could become any shape
the wind desires. Slowly
I wander the hearts’ wilderness
on cut feet. Here, kneeling
I touch the tangles of earth snow will erase,
touch the nothing of you,
entrusted to me. Art by Yan Qin Weng
Recommended listening: Morning Sun - Taba Chake
Links of the Day: Accidental Art Yale Literary Magazine
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