drycrikjournal

WINDOW GLASS

                                                      This to a man with neither courage, brain,

                                                      nor heart to find his way back home again.

                                                                    – B. H. Fairchild (“The Second Annual

                                                                   Wizard of Oz Reunion in Liberal, Kansas”)

I catch glimpses of faces reflected in windows

this side of the mountains the birds mistake

for open space—beak first limp upon the redwood

deck. Bell rung, we set them upright and wait

as most come back to life. I claw my memory,

open it like garden soil for names to nurture

at the damnedest times of day or night dreams

as the bird flies off.  Nothing’s quite connected, yet

familiar as my grandmother’s vegetable  beef

soup steaming on the electric coil

that blistered my hand red. My aunt would talk

politics back in the Watergate Days, swear

by Nixon, then take my side of the debate

between spoonfuls, beckoning me

from the other side of the window glass.

for Sean Sexton