It was a Sunday

on May 29, 2013 in Poetry

It was a Sunday,
the fourth of August
nineteen ninety-one,
not that I remember the day

what is tile…
then was linoleum
what is wood was carpet
the front door had been blue
but only the pictures can be sure

I am there and I am seven
Or rather he,
he is there, he is seven

that boy still owns the hallways
and I am just the borrower.
If I lay my head beside him
when his bedtime nightly comes
can we close such a distance no smaller than an age? Can I shed my mind of the hurling of the world through vastness and void
and just share that space with that boy?

I have nothing to tell him
There’s nothing I could teach that he will not learn in time, but rather I’d beg him to refund me the price the years have charged

I’d ask him why we cried atop a Massachusetts stair and told our Mother we’d forgotten how to fly.

I cannot ask him, myself so young, I’ve forgotten where he lives. But maybe on the fourth, of a Sunday in nineteen ninety-one he yet remembers.

I want to see that boy at seven even with my waking eyes if only to conquer a bit of time and unite two brief instants of a life that is by those ticking seconds divided until I become indivisible
And die.

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