The boy floats face down back to shore.
His body’s bleeding still. His arms move,
but only with the waves.
For a moment the world has stopped
and all things seem to multiply. Each stone
becomes a moment not to be thrown away.
Maybe all things speak their own death.
Maybe everything floats below the skin.
Maybe there are some days when you’re inside
the wing and some days when you’re not…
His cousin Alfred laughs
and Uncle Charles is smiling too. Maybe
every common thing has this in common.
For he could see that Uncle Charles would die
with his arms tied to a hospital bed,
and Alfred would be in a car accident
two years later. He remembers 8 x 7 is 56.
The water drips. The lake swells. The boy stands.
The gods all think our words are tedious
extensions of our minds…
Or so he tells his mother who
is near death knee deep in the red water
calling him back to her.
© James Kleinhenz