Poetry can capture a moment for us so that we can always re-experience its emotions years later. I'm glad I wrote this poem because, even decades later, it brings that long-gone child back more clearly and intensely than any photograph.
JOSEPH SLEEPS,
his eyelids like a moth’s
fringed wings.
Arms flail against the
Ninja Turtle sheet
and suddenly-long legs
race time.
Awake, he’s a
water-leak detector, a recycling ranger
who bans Styrofoam and
asks for beeswax
crayons, a renewable
resource.
He wants to adopt the
Missouri river,
write the president
to make factories stop
polluting.
They’re old friends, he
and George Bush.
He writes and scolds
the president, every
month or so,
about bombing the
children of Iraq
(he made his own sign to
carry in protest),
about the plight of the
California condor and northern gray wolf,
about more shelters and
aid for the homeless.
The lion-shaped bulletin
board in his room
is covered with pictures
and letters from George,
who must be nice,
even if he is a slow
learner.
Joseph is a mystery fan,
owns 54 Nancy Drews.
Nancy’s his friend,
along with Jo, Meg, and Amy
and poor Beth, of course,
whom he still mourns.
He also reads of knights
and wizards, superheroes,
and how to win at
Nintendo.
The cats and houseplants
are his to feed and water,
and the sunflower
blooming in the driveway’s border
of weeds. He drew our
backyard to scale,
using map symbols, sent
off to have it declared
an official wildlife
refuge, left a good-night
note on my pillow,
written in Egyptian hieroglyphs.
In my life, I have done
one good thing.
Published in Heart's Migration (Tia Chucha Press, 2009)
I love this poem. It reminds me of my boy. His beautiful spirit disappeared one day. I don't know where it went. Or why it left. I pray it can get back in. I want to rescue him. Lasso his spirit.
ReplyDeleteOh, Reine. I'm sorry. I'm sure it's still there. Sometimes they wander down some bleak pathways before finding their way back home. xoxoxo
ReplyDelete