(An International Journal of Poetry)
Volume-1 June-2011 Number-1
by Kathleen Specter
Ask me to uncover the bones of my blue twin
Who was drowned in poisoned air,
To separate the real from the something else
Like oil on wateró
He was taken to the death baths,
Saw the light of unlighted visions;
Tears have long since soaked the salt from my eyes.
Now that my grief has grown old with me
Things go through my mind when I canít sleep:
The cold rain; the wind as we were made to dig his grave;
My father weeping beside me, falling to his knees,
Struck in the head with the butt of a gun.
I wake with an image like a beating heart,
The mirror on the wall showing a face hardly mine, hardly not mine.
Face of a man who tries to forget he is living.
My waking is haunted by listening, but to what?
The spaces between notes, something
More damning than silence browning the photograph
Of a boy that could be me or him.
In this life I am frightened of waking
To the cold walls, water-stained ceiling,
And smokestacks belching black against the sky.
Our fatherís tears are gone, as is the darkness
In which I lost you, brotheró
Understand I am trying to go on