Poetry Daily: http://www.poems.com/

Perdre


Leave me here
amidst the underworld
of pickaxes. Anvils. Work
horses and sawdust.

The afternoon light
was the texture of language—

dust before a death.

I want to release
memory. Pull this torture
away from its own
handle

and watch its heft fall
like a feather striking
a body.

Don't let me
remember my son every time
a hawk's shadow moves
over the earth.

I can't forget the edge
of a wing pressed
into being,

a ghost of beeswax
glazing my old thumb.

The last time I observed light
was remarkable enough
to kill me.

I remember the soar
of his laughter
as he took off.


Rachel Eliza Griffiths

The Requited Distance
Sheep Meadow Press


To view this poem online, visit the Poetry Daily archive at http://www.poems.com/archive.php
View a large-print version of this poem