The Forgotten Art of Flapping Hands

 
 Image: Val Dunham

Image: Val Dunham

 

The Forgotten Art of Flapping Hands

Come morning I'll remember that you won't always be four.
I'll nod and wink to the boy you'll be at sixteen,
and struggle to make your beautiful, fluttering hands
still
like everybody else's.

Tomorrow, over coffee, I'll admit you are a bird
among a flock of flightless things
and I will strain against your wings until they're
still
and inanimate
like everybody else's.

But tonight, my starling boy, you are free--
untied to graze the red drenched sky,
a wobbling song I watch like a kite flyer,
bulky and flightless on the ground.

When my coffee grows cold and
your body still trembles I'll see sense,
but tonight, watching your silhouette
fold a shadowed kiss around a wanting sun I think
"Dear God, he is a poem
we are reading like a script."