Spring 1983 • Vol. V No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1983 |

Effigy

The days are not divided. I watch, agnostic father and afraid. Your mother's hand gently strokes your face, shapes the setting wax, as light as winds in summer on contours of cloud wipe moisture into forms. Your likeness is of what had breath, unwilled effigy that should be fable but is here in what should be flesh-- flesh that moved, if I remember, like liquid malt, had something of almond now blanched in coma too like marble. Your eyes, staring deadly, drill me with their black narcotic. My fingers a bracelet round your wrist, feel the shining bone and some distant murmur as if death pulled a thread unseen beneath your skin. My thumb tests my own heart staggering from your one decade. I watch the years go like candle-smoke.

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