Horizon
2 Minutes Read Time
What burns
and flowers, he moves toward. His hand across skies, hovers
above thorned roses, darting
bees. So much inside
pounding to break out. On the porch, leaves take
off, tomatoes ask for water, he asks me
for nothing. Careful, Brendan. He bends
to petals, reaches
into stamens, stands still
among the flit of wings, his face against
a dusk horizon—
his whole life a partial
eclipse, blanked-out light
where the moon should be. Step back
from there. A luminous absence,
he clicks and clacks a desperate Morse code
blushing excitement, green discovery
at this humming
bush. A bee buzzes
up from a bud, into his face, he bats
the air, in this silent film, the faster
I run, the slower
I go, I move
frame by frame, reach
the flaring pink, pull his hand
back, No Stop Fuck Jesus. In his palm, a crushed bee,
invisible sting, his screams ripple,
shatter my ears, vise grip
on my arm, and I know, of course, what
his words would be
if he could talk, Help me, Dad,
and it makes me angry, feel unresourceful and blue.
There’s no forecast—
It’s all splashed watercolor.
Should I yell for Grace
in the other room, but no, she’s writing, maybe
taking a nap, trying to find
a fragment
of peace, so I become a portrait,
count leaves, smell the honey,
watch the sky, slow
my breath, bend down to Brendan, cradle him
the way my father
cradled me, humming a song, brushing tears
away, say the words for him.
Read more from Issue 22.2.
