a poem by Jim Daniels

[mysneaker.livejournal.com]

(this poet has been my mentor for years. )


Falling Bricks

My daughter sings under the brick arch
of the abandoned house next door,
her stage for an audience of stones
and weeds. He voice through glass
high and griefless, higher than it
might ever go, the sky endless
pure blue without credit cards
or betrayal.

Who can you trust? I'm making a list
of things to do--it helps me
keep control. I fold up the list
and toss it in the trast with a piece
of broken glass. When she is tired,
my daughter clutches my neck
as if it were a rope to save her.

The song has more than one name,
if we have to put a name on it,
write it down--three songs
intermingled and strung together
seamlessly, like I imagine our lives
should me--mine, hers, and down
the line.

Above her, the bricks
are loosening. I should not
let her sing there, but she is perfectly
framed like a saint in an altar.
I hole my own neck like that
to imagine the comfort she takes.
My skin is loosening there.
Oh, my beautiful child,
do not trust me.

Comments

[pushyouaround.livejournal.com]

i really like this...thank you for posting it.