Capsules,
like arrows,
slide down into the labyrinth of tissue, wandering further
than the dark issuing of dreams / humming pulled out of the ear,
still focused on the past,
the high mast of comfort.
Little white flag
screams out
surrender,
and then folds
its small hands.
Capsized
You don’t know it yet,
but when you dream of sand dollars
running down the beach
& the pale yellow sea has many boats,
you are dreaming of me.
There I am now,
that ship on the ocean floor
barley visible through all your mother’s teeth.
Papa, sometimes if I squint,
I can see you changing the way light bends. How natural it looks against all those strings of shadow. I am not afraid. There are times when I feel you against the backdrop of sun. You lift tiny hairs, make the birds cry out in sleep, keep the earth soft when there’s no rain. I let every seed fall in your footsteps. When you finally whisper after me, things take root, & the trees seem to sigh in unison, as if your voice relieves them from all their rings.
Erin J. Mullikin's work has appeared at Gloom Cupboard and Gently Read Literature. She is this year's recipient of The Clemson English Department's Creative Writing Award for Poetry. Visit her blog, Every Red Fiber.
