A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
You sit at a window and listen to your father crossing the dark grasses of the fields toward you, a moon soaking through his shoes as he shuffles the wind aside, the night in his hands like an empty bridle. How long have we been this way, you ask him. It must be ages, the wind answers. It must be the music of the wind turning your fingers to glass, turning the furniture of childhood to the colors of horses, turning them away. Your father is still crossing the acres, a light on his tongue like a small coin from an empire that has always been ruined. Now the dark flocks are drifting through his shoulders with an odor of lavender, an odor of gold. Now he has turned as though to go, but only knelt down with the heavy oars of October on his forearms, to begin the horrible rowing. You sit in a chair in the room. The wind lies open on your lap like the score of a life you did not measure. You rise. You turn back to the room and repeat what you know: The earth is not a home. The night is not an empty bridle in the hands of a man crossing a field with a new moon in his old wool. We abandon the dead. We abandon them. -- Joseph Fasano is the author of three collections of poems, Vincent (Cider Press Review 2015), Inheritance (Cider Press Review, 2014), and Fugue for Other Hands (Cider Press Review, 2013), winner of the Cider Press Review Book Award. Copyright © 2013 by Joseph Fasano. Used with permission of the author. This poem was published by The Academy of American Poets and Cider Press Review.