THE FEAST IS ALMOST OVER
Published by Zone 3, November, 2018
Direct from the earth’s molten core,
my son lays open the inner surface
of his hands, says, you carried roses
(or was it heather?) in your palms for me,
now I see you forage violets for my daughter.
In the flowering fields, there was heat
and sometimes overkill—but now
the buds lean us into the light.
I tell him, your children are the open air
between us, a land that neither begins nor ends.
Waiting a mile beneath the reach
of the sun, I feel the pull of what is me
and him and them in one—
a volcano forcing nutrients
to the surface. I kneel down, crushing
the grass, and imagine deep-water forays
rushing through currents—here I navigate
what’s left with love. Still sliding,
I catch a branch and hold on,
knowing the fall will come.