from grandmother’s balcony. I floated
through a corrupted world to meet water

like Icarus or my first piano student, bloated
and Black, choking on that muddy Mississippi.

When my voice fell, instead of balling, I tilled
cool earth, found rest on black grass where

dandelion seeds stood long enough to laugh
breeze across my face, a rivulet of sunbeams

swimming across my room, garden of small eons,
spent like a hulled mollusk in a basket of juices

where echinacea pots sun lounge near my bed,
where I call my friend who was lover somewhere,

tender. In a mess of garlands, I wonder why
God swallows children and leaves for us to bear.

I watch my father’s disappointed mouth say
boys should not want boys made of river

because boys grow to be and men,
men are mirrors and full of scars.

To read more from Obsidian, please link to our Subscribe page