The Delivery, Z.Z. Wei
Stage 4
for Bruce
In my genetic line we are
stricken like bells or flint
or an unseen sword comes to top our branches
the feeling is of conflagration; the hot heart
stops still in horror; in vain firemen scale the walls
while your family dies cold, from a squeeze-vine
a congealing, a clotting and withholding, a coagulation
spring mud turned hard under horse’s hooves
and I suppose there are families that die by air
much more is known of deaths by water.
Going through the process with you,
like your bedside table a fixture at your side,
I watch the sun come out
after last night’s thunder
onto high ledges
where big birds bask.
You look out, tan and dusty
where earth meets sky
as each operation brings desiccating dawns
and I am yours
your solidity
for your ever
for each day’s flight
among the red rocks, the arroyos
of condor-country. what a wing-spread
you display, unfurling
at the cliff-edge, beginning your flight
across the canyon.
____________________
Pamela O’Shaughnessy