Treasure Island

B H Fairchild

(1942 - / Houston, Texas.)

Flight


Outside my window the wasps
are making their slow circle,
dizzy flights of forage and return,
hovering among azaleas
that bob in a sluggish breeze
this humid, sun-torn morning.

Yesterday my wife held me here
as I thrashed and moaned, her hand
in my foaming mouth, and my son
saw what he was warned he might.

Last night dreams stormed my brain
in thick swirls of shame and fear.
Behind a white garage a locked shed
full of wide-eyed dolls burned,
yellow smoke boiling up in huge clumps
as I watched, feet nailed to the ground.
In dining cars white table cloths
unfolded wings and flew like gulls.
An old German in a green Homburg
sang lieder, Mein Herz ist müde.
In a garden in Pasadena my father
posed in Navy whites while overhead
silver dirigibles moved like great whales.
And in the narrowing tunnel
of the dream’s end I flew down
onto the iron red road
of my grandfather’s farm.
There was a white rail fence.
In the green meadow beyond,
a small boy walked toward me.
His smile was the moon’s rim.
Across his egg-shell eyes
ran scenes from my future life,
and he embraced me like a son
or father or my lost brother.

Submitted: Tuesday, March 06, 2012

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  • Patti Masterman (3/28/2013 11:46:00 AM)

    Gosh this gave me incredible chills. It reminded me of an idea (not my own of course) how
    time might exist everywhere simultaneously, so that in other parts of the universe (or whatever term
    you would choose) , time keeps flowing, and the past is still alive in those other parts- otherwise,
    how could it still feel so near and present all the time, as if straining below the surface of apparent things. (Report) Reply

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