You’d think going inside
The doorway black as velvet,
Fuzzy with summer dust,
Would be cooler.
Without the huge fan
To whip stale air
Into froths of breath,
Two girl cousins
Pad on boards
Splintered by time.
From there, we children peer
Through their bedroom vent,
Watching our grandmother,
Tiny and naked, bicycle
Her legs around him,
Our grandfather, large,
and naked. What
Are they doing? Helpless
To understand, we run.
Two decades pass.
I find his letters
In the musty trunk,
The father I never saw.
Typewritten, yellow, to her,
Our mother. I see the path
he took away from us.
I was always helpless to find
him. Now. Too late.
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Wonderful, wonderful images in this. And I just love using the word 'bicycle' as a verb - brilliant! There is something beautifully sensual about this poem. I found myself reading it again and again.
ReplyDeleteWhat she said! And those last two lines, an ache.
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