He says, “…look…,” and I do. Because
he has always been present, like creation
myth, like before primordial mountains,
before he and I were proto-; before pre—
would have been there, when the dog was
being punched and I stood too close, like
pebbles to the face; would have been there,
to yell “You lie,” an Atlas in the river
poplars when another one said, “I don’t
know how to love you, but I do.” He wants
to show me a mastery, and it’s hard to ignore
the Jesus references: he’s side lit by 2pm
morning light, lips parted, almost a murmur,
almost a prayer, he points an explorer’s finger—
“There…” Brown-breasted, I am full of black
bird anger, but knew the truth he spoke painting
the underhangs of my house blue, inviting
the sky to be at home with me, trust the flap
of pages like wings to light on “Here”—a tern-
and “There”—a frenzy of motion—a hawk. In
his eyes, magnified, I see he is closest to flight.
Since we have been on this pellet of bones and skin
dust, the 63 zeros nest cast and claw, evidence
of those beyond dragon-filled waters, and I wonder
each year, if it’s this magic he seeks, a feather
among the hissing mushrooms, a marker of
existence, in this land of lost moisture, smeared
clouds—hunters and watchers silently knock
at leaves and grubs, when he says “…Look…”
I open myself to molt.