False Indigo

                Greenwich, Connecticut 
                2007

When I was a boy—a false boy—language was / scattered: birdseed from the backyard feeder / on the reverend’s tongue. Soft, careful stirring of wings, soft settling / of scripture in the low grass—before / the other boys leapt from their pews / to collect meaning in the pastel bowls / of polos. In my own pew, I waited
/ to scatter less elegantly / from the hand of god—only once / I knew there was no choice / but to scatter: from god to man / to image to eye. Each afternoon my reflection flamed / across the chancel windows was a daily miracle. For years / I wanted to reach through the glass / to touch. I waited for god to pour / the high pitch I couldn’t rehearse away / into the glass decanter I reflected. Instead / one Sunday night, rowing across the churning lake / of my teens, god shined a flashlight / into my eyes. In the morning, I watched / what filled the mirror. The room came into focus / like the portrait of negative space, that vase / I spent childhood trying to see before / I saw the two men who were always almost touching, afraid that others might see.

Read more from Issue 18.2.