Arian Katsimbras

Issue #
February 28, 2015

Elegy for My Son with Rising Light

How often can I send my son to speak

to the emptiness inside the house

buried in woods before he comes back

with the wrong mouth, pulling honey

bees and dry oak out in knots, before

he begins to speak as the abandoned

house, speak as slow wind, speak

as half-collapsed roof kicked in

by a deliberate sky pouring itself

into him full and full still until stars

lit hard with what I only now know

to be dead light glow inside his chest,

speak as a body drowned with sunrise.

There is no previous item
Go back to Top Menu
There is no next item
Go back to Top Menu