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
drycrikjournal 