Residues
Every child who listens
all night to the wind eventually
knows his breathing turns a wheel
pouring time and dream to leave no trace.
Li-Young Lee, ‘Tearing the page’.
I imagine you are consumed
by his imminent departure,
worry lines crowd your forehead
leaving space for foundation
to linger. The clock is ticking
against your will. Prisms
of revolving rooms,
these visions circle,
light is fat, it glistens.
Every child who listens
to the sound of water running
out of the bathtub, who swims
in the residue of bubbles,
who remembers the outline
of their mother—this is your child too.
A mark of your shadow, blessedly,
endlessly, your child
will remain the lick of a tongue
after ice cream. A melody
all night to the wind eventually
crashes and falls into your lap.
Sometimes you will wish for the silence
of a river being blown in all directions,
for the chop, the slice of breathing
working its way through cheeks
puckered like orange peel.
You may hope the body
will be strong enough to contain him;
this boy has become an eel,
knows his breathing turns a wheel
deep inside your centre. You need his baking soda
texture to smooth the wrinkles of your skin.
You remember nothing about life
before him, except the enormity
of everything else, now shrunk to the size
of your pinkie. You hold his face
like a lantern. His brow is a beacon,
and as the darkness thickens,
you worry the ripples, the haste,
pouring time and dream to leave no trace.