Poetry and Poetics
Marc Chagall's been to visit
my dad a couple of times.
He puts him on a doe-eyed cow
with blue horns and they fly
into sheets hung with night air
of fire and frost. My dad closes
his eyes and hangs on tight. He
hears a violin duet and trumpet
played by an upside down man.
The rooftops are soft as chalk.
It's been a long time since he saw
the fifteen homes of childhood
or the burning, careful leaves
that seem to scatter across
every field. The next morning
my dad thinks he's been watching
commercials. His hands pet
his blanket, his feet twitch
with pleasure. The aides don't
have any idea my dad takes these
trips. They think the roses blooming
under his jaw are a simple rash.
They think his window to outside
is made of glass.
© by Valerie
Table of contents
VPR home page
read with browser
font preferences set at 12 pt. Times New