A poem often requested
This poem, from Memories in Clay, Dreams of Wolves, is often requested when I do a public reading:
The
rock flew from his hand
as if it willed flight
out of its own silent matter.
The
rock flew as if envious
of the robin sailing sky
into the just blossomed locust.
The
rock flew effortlessly,
impelled by something in the boy
that sought the bird's flight
and,
not being able to have it,
sought to negate the pulse
of life in the bird's wings.
The
rock flew with a dark grace,
its arc mimicking the bird's.
The boy's arm was insincere
and
had never thrown a ball straight
into an open mitt or past a
waiting batter,
had never found the mark when
they
gathered together to smash
brown bottles floating in the
creek.
But this time, impelled by a fear,
or
an envy, or an understanding
of the bird's flight onto the
branch
which still vibrated its coin
sized leaves
from
the inertia of the flight
transferred from sky to silent
tree
this time, the rock flew certain,
the
arm was true, the motion perfect.
There was a "thuk"–as if the
rock
had struck the branch alone.
The
robin stumbled from the tree,
dropping feathers, losing its
flight,
abandoning its grace, its pulse of
life.
The
robin bounced three inches
from the red clay bared by a
shovel
beneath the silent locust tree.
The
bird lay still. The tree no
longer moved. The boy stood,
stunned
by the anger of his unthought aim,
by
the power of his arm to negate
the flight, the pulse of bird.
There was no blood. The robin's
eyes
were
beady, but clear. The boy
backed away from the black
feathers.
The rock had disappeared,
transferring
its stillness, its inertia
of silence and negation
to deny the pulse, the life of
bird.
The
bird lay still, its eyes useless,
its wings folded against its
breast,
having spent its motion to the
stone.
The
rock flew on with the bird's
momentum–forever–in the boy's
mind
negating the wind, the sky, the
just passed spring.
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