Thursday, November 27, 2014

Every lost and wandered thing

 photo Apathica1.jpg

What was silent in the father speaks in the son.” ~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Apathica

He wants to tell me something,
what he knows of impermanence,
the perseverance of chased quail,
four ways to summon kestrel, the
misapplication of punctuality, how
to craft tombs for a waiting boy.

It will be a busy morning, this.
Easy to imagine him as he once
stood outside my door in Bermuda
shorts holding a sack of meatball
sandwiches, the surprise at my
surprise of his surprise visit.

 photo Apathica2.jpg

And now, nine years later he
waits still for me to visit just
once, with some cut flowers
swaddled in tissue bunting to
lay on the grass above the plate
that bears his name into oblivion.

I will go, I tell myself again and
again, the camera pulling back to
reveal the shouldered son shuddering
alone on the ground, dead leaves
tracing every lost and wandered thing,
the pull of branches inevitable as winter.

Joseph Gallo
November 24, 2014

 photo Apathica3.jpg

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