Joseph Lisowski writes

FROM DEATH’S SILENCE [part III]

WORK

How far back can I go

before I regain the father

who cradled me, whose voice

spun a warm blanket

that swaddled my farthest nerves?

How far back must I go?

My hands and feet

are not up to the task.

My mind is stiff

with speculation.

I need to leave behind

this desire, start without

hope.  This is no romance.

It is a fool's risk,

a drunkenness

that swallows venom

and spits fire.

PATIENCE

Rivers of sorrow

hold no fish.

Bait drifts listlessly

on the surface.

Monofilament sways

in the current.

What if a man

standing on the bank

casts again and again.

How long can he endure?

APPARITION

If God has a face,

it is my daughter's

sparkling like sun dazzled sea.

My spirit jumps at the sight,

eyes well with tears,

vocal chords constrict.

Words, half formed,

dribble from my lips,

fall wet to chest, knees.

Then she vanishes.

I am alone in my living room.

The overhead fan rattles,

forcing in desert wind.

It's like my bones turn to ash.

Flesh stiffens and feels like wax.

MARKING THE CALENDAR

Today is a good day.  Clouds

keep sun and punishment away.

A few drops of rain soothe

my scorched flesh.  I take

whatever chill wind brings.

Tropic heat wears

a northern soul bone thin.

After years, even blood is weary.

I yearn for a simpler time.

But today is a good day.

It is Easter, and I now write this

to remind me later

that it is so.

KNOCKING AT THE DOOR

I cannot say

what batters, knocks,

pushes me.

(My eyes blur

and cannot see

what I write).

I am alive in sensible things.

My mass breaks space,

breath streaks the air.

But my daughter's spirit

is more real than bones

I crack, blood I spill.