the kid wishes to be not sad
but is, and everywhere looks for
a butterfly to hold, to adore
for a brief moment into the mind,
to sit beside.
to behold lying (face up) on summer’s floor
before comes the dust behind,
and it
blanketing the brain with thought,
too often. (not always.)
but he not knows
why or how the itch began. he not dreams
but forms eight-figures beneath
the cot waiting for him to sleep
(and it coming not.)
the kid wants to be kind
and warm to other skins
but is filled with finger-pins
and ice-veins and his palms are like stringed
from within.
as he outstretches
a sad hand that wants to be not sad
but is, he is thrown
outward birthing tears from the nose
and my eyes become mirrors to this sad sight.
he wishes, truly, to prove to his […]
that he is real that he is like me: that he is skin.
but there is the smell of burnt on his still
stiff scars and I wish to be […] to him
but am not and everywhere look […]
for a shard of jigsaw to place, jagged, under
my veins for him to know deep in the skin
that puzzled twists (of mind, of muscle, of hope)
may still, with effort, with love, with luck,
find a peace and a slice of quiet sleep.
the kid wishes to be warm but is so
– fucking cold
and I wish to dislodge the rock that is like a dry weight
in his throat and to outbreathe the lukewarm water
that will soothe him but can not. instead we will keep running
rat-like and we will love we will,
we will to be not sad
and everywhere look
for a butterfly to hold, to adore
for a brief moment into the mind.
sometimes it is beheld after
the last breath of the day and before
the first of the dawn and there is silence
in the room and the kid smiles and is not sad
and in this minute the crescent in the sky
moves not and we listen to it.
soft-spoken.
Thank-yous. I cannot remember where or when I wrote this one. Perhaps after breaking my knees in Austria. But the « tears from the nose » are my little brother’s – the only time I ever saw him cry. Thank you for your bedrock-presence in my life. The « rock that is like a dry weight » is a sensation I used to regularly have as a teenager, usually on the schoolbus. The « eight-figures beneath the cot » refer to the dreams & insomnia I had when obsessing over math problems in college. :(