|
| Explaining Current Events to a One-Year Old The sky will never be this gray—belly of a mallard, body of a plane emerging from clouds— layer upon layer in every direction. Gone are the goldfinches, barn swallows, violet greens. Welcome the juncos, their metronome calls, welcome the play of light and dark, the occasional patch of blue, the ever-present wind. The dogwood's aflame. The big leaf maple's right behind her. Lots of things could easily ignite, which is why we dress you in flame-retardant pajamas, circle your neck with light-blue hearts. The larkspur we waited for all summer is finally blooming, but it's wrong— bent beneath a cedar, snaking up, snaking right back down. When your eyes are closed, I focus on your eyelids. Your eyelids and your breath, breath of the wind, the cottonwood's applause. Because you open like a flower, I leave a light on in the hall. Because each day the red in the leaves a little redder, I wish they were more like lullabies of unknown origin— like the one you wake from to cake and pretty horses. To explain them, I need to explain country, God, passion, loyalty, love. Because I don't know how else to begin, I begin with love. Martha Silano (c) Martha Silano, 2006 Previously published in Blue Positive (Steel Toe Books, 2006) |
 |
 |