Light through Lace Curtains
The day he scolded God, light dappled the small-
flowered walls. Death banded his life like the ring
he wore, a bright new thing clotted in clay, a shawl
of light escaping. It was morning and the sun’s ball
shimmered in pieces on his bed. I sing
the day he scolded God. Light dappled my small
love for this man escaping, who couldn’t stall
death any more than a wasp his last sting,
who wore a bright new thing clotted in clay, a shawl
of dark curls under a small blue suit, the gall
of life giving him fists. I went to your school for nothing,
he scolded, the day God-light dappled the small
strange fruit of his organs. If he had to fall
at thirty-five, God-pinned, he’d go out swinging,
flinging a bright new thing clotted in clay, a shawl
of cursed thoughts for me to write for him. Through all
I’ll never know of his insides, my Braille’s this thread: loving
the day he scolded God, when light-dappled, small,
he wore a bright new thing clotted in clay, a morning’s shawl.