The Persistence of Memory
The child, the grassy grave, and standing there.
The mother speaking to the five-year-old.
She tells him of the soul he is to bear,
his older brother's soul. His own must fold--
a flag of honour, mourning, hid from sight.
Your brother was an infant when he died.
You, Salvador, are lucky, living, bright
as pennies copper-new. Your world is wide.
It's time you understood the will of God.
He gave you life that you might incarnate
the precious little one beneath this sod.
His grave releases him. This is your fate.
The man had masks, a strangeness, force.
The art flew birdlike from a darkened source.
Shirley Glubka is a retired psychotherapist, poet, essayist, and novelist. Her most recent chapbook is Reflections Caught Leaping: poetry and related prose. Her latest novel: The Bright Logic of Wilma Schuh. Shirley lives in Prospect, Maine with her spouse, Virginia Holmes. Website: http://shirleyglubka.weebly.com
3/8/2020 12:49:18 pm
I particularly love the last two lines of this poem. Very evocative!
3/9/2020 09:48:26 pm
You do the art, the artist, and your form incredible justice.
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