Text & Commentary

The Drawing (1989)

Our son has jabbed the sheet
I was writing on
and named it rain.

A tight-fisted deeply
pressed slash of black
that looks like an ancient
word-this is his lightning.

A smooth curve that bends
itself off the page
and back, knotting tightly,
then fading, somewhat
like your summer ponytail,
is not the moon as
I guessed, but thunder.

Of course.
To those who are not parents
sounds still have shape.
I howl in the gash
I axed in our strongest oak.
You gasp, frightened,
from the gaping soil
where your clippers fell.

I fear, my love,
I have forgotten
how to draw the moan
my hearts makes in full
satisfaction of its
love for you. Our son
is right. This page is air
in an August storm.
My heart speaks like
a lost letter rejoined
to a word whispered
late at night.