Aach...ye speak like a poet, but ye punch like one too...

PUNCH LIKE A POET

Sunday, November 28, 2004
  
Poem

RAINBOY

You don't know how he holds his form
but he finds a way to. Ten years old,
somehow full of water, like he were born
of the leak in the washing machine,
though you know you held him when the doctor
pulled him out from you, double-miracle.
Water's his flesh--he could cry through supper
and you'd never know, think
his face was dripping like it always does,
but his own laughter marks him
like rain falling into rivers.
You never let him bathe--tried it once,
but panicked when he ducked below
the water as a joke, invisible,
and stayed for hours. You didn't dare
to open the drain, and besides,
he was greasy, rainbowed for days
with soap that wouldn't wash away.
You try to hold his hand but go right through.
Rainboy. He stands liquid,
full of light between you and the lamp
when you kiss him goodnight,
but the shadows in the unlit hall
swim through his body when he runs to bed.
You try to tuck him in at night,
but the sheets soak through. By morning
he's curled above, uncovered,
quiet as a lake asleep on the bedrock.
When he walks through the rain to school
he dimples like the puddles that splash him back.
The kids once put a goldfish in his ear
and watched it swim behind his face;
the teacher followed with a small net
and fished it out. You drive him
to the movies for his birthday
and pass the river on the way
through town; he flattens his face
against the window and watches
the water sliding past, downstream.
He asks you where it's going.
To the sea, you say. What's the sea?
It's like you, only bigger.
At the movie you spread a tarp
across his seat so he won't soak it.
Yesterday he touched a finger
to the stove and didn't pull it back
until you saw him start to steam away
and screamed. What if it gets lost?
he asks you after goodnight prayers.
If what gets lost? The river--
what if it doesn't find the sea?
His eyes are wide and blue as swimming pools.
It always does, sweetie. It can't help it.
He falls asleep, and later so do you,
and dream you're with him
at the park above the river cooking hotdogs
on the grill and flying kites. He can't understand
why you're supposed to make it fly,
the pleasure in a thing that's caught and held
by wind, and when you hand the string
to him he can't hold it in his water-hands
and it goes free and disappears
against the clouds. It's late. You pack
the cooler up and lug it to the car
expecting him to follow, but hear
him laugh and turn around. He's running
towards the running water, arms stretched out,
scaring geese. The orange sun
against the hills fills him with departing light--
you might still catch him if you run
more quick than water runs downhill.
He runs downhill.

(11/28/04)

# posted by Daniel at 6:38 PM.