Thursday, September 11, 2008

Flying (Poem)


But Daddy, she says,
kite over her head,

its tail masking her eyes.
We’ll tell the wind

to come back
. She
lifts the kite to look at me

then makes for the door
before I can reply,

her sister close behind,
looking back

for my permissive nod.
They’re so different,

these two, yet their voices
layer so finely—the older’s

relentless, compressed;
the younger’s expectant,

fragile—as they
will the wind to cover

their August afternoon
that I draw in breath,

hoping the vacuum will
pull currents enough

to keep their string
trained, their voices taut

against the silent
movements of God.

*Tentatively titled--any suggestions?