to have been provided for.

 

Only so many boxes

and so today I must sift titles,

spare the books I need to see

on my shelves each morning;

lined pillars holding space.

 

I store one to take

of a boy alive in Lemenster

diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis.

He cut his thigh

deep to scar straight

with edge of a a soup can.

 

I have not gone that far.

 

But I know,

only so many books

can I take, and I pack his.

 

You and I

we played together

pulling the wooden dragon

my father gave me

by its green string.

 

And when the wings

unexpectedly [broke] stilled

I was forgiving.

 

You, not so.

As if it were your father,

not mine,

whose gift had failed

a face fallen and confused

sprung on brow, disorder;

he would have been frightened too.

 

I took your hands away

you had become a young tottering boy

again, desperate to fix things,

 

would have lost yourself

to that beaten moment,

a frustrated lamb,

if I had not assured you,

my lover:

the bearer of that toy

would never be angry.

 

Boy and I

consider, to not be held

by the gloaming;

that space around waking

where dreams are preserved,

as you are.  Defended.

 

I can not digest my food

without feeding enzymes,

foreign and in plastic

to myself.

I awoke one morning,

next to a bright and sleeping you

having forgotten that.

My stomach aching.

 

How does one wake another of a lighter kind?

 

It would disturb

that sacred place

raised, blessed and steady,

above your head.

 

I thought,

and did not wake you,

betrayed you.

 

You, who might have read to me

and rubbed circles into my belly

with your palm.

 

Now I pack my shelves

collect what is needed.

more sparse and specific they will be

in my new place.

 

what space remains

in boxes

I fill with paper

 

and think smile

could we be not worth that?

 

##

by Shannon Nissa Bailey Powers

Poetry workshop

10/3/98