On the precipice of something great
they stood--or, rather,
sat--weaving hopes
into their palms and throwing shadows
just to find the ground.
Whatever they never were
fell from the soles
of their swinging feet and clattered
as it struck
the sides of history.

For a moment,
they let the madness
of memories
overwhelm their senses.
They could've gone so astray.
They could've been so static.
A half-written screenplay.
A near-forgotten attic.

But they had escaped
the ever-churning wheel,
the silicon bubble of this reality,
and burst brusquely and permanently
into possibility.

And they were exhausted.

So the rainbow-chasing was left
for another day.
A fervently promised tomorrow.
For tonight
they collapsed side-by-side
back into the present darkness.

My memories of you are wires
crossed with the stories
I’ve so often heard.
Dates and certain traits
are now blurred
and faded.
I can’t remember your voice.
It’s been years since I could,
but I remember
how it rumbled.

I do remember your arms—stalwart
and freckled so deeply they looked
tanned—the same arms that gave blood
in the name of each
of your grandchildren.
Your arms were my first charitable act.

When I would wake at four
and stumble sleepily into the living room
to find you watching the news
on mute
in that old battered recliner,
your arms were my rocking chair.

When you marshaled your parade
of capped grandchildren
across the street
to the park that will forever be yours,
your arms were a force of nature,
sending multiple swings soaring
into the air
in a complex rhythm
only you
could comprehend.

I remember your chest—barrel-shaped
and strong—creating a whistle
more powerful than I could fathom.
I still think of you
each time
I manage to carry a tune.

I remember your hands
picking me up and dusting me off
when I jumped
too soon.
The selfsame hands
that gathered up all the caps we strew
carelessly in the grass and mulch
balancing them one by one
atop your head
when the sun was setting
and it was time to leave.

I can remember
that lovely rumble
leading one final rendition
of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”
as you marched us
safely home.

When I open my hands
revealing the worlds smeared
across them, I’m not terrified
of what you’ll see,
but, rather,
what I don’t.

Barbed fingertips and dwindling
paths—this fortune’s not charted
for the faint of heart.
I’m mapless
and hesitating.

Reality is vanquished
by the utter darkness.
The world is constantly
shifting--a pendulum
swinging across the sky.

But with no evidence,
this phenomenon can't claim you.
It remains obstinately
theoretical and the fugue
triumphs.

Only landing
can prove you ever
took off.

My words are mirages
of satisfaction
when thoughts desert me.