THE BOYS / 9 years gone by Charles O'Hay
I used to hear you crying
in the thickets of my dreams as night covered you
with its black cloth. I wrapped my hands and feet,
tore at the bindweed and tramped down the nettles
but could not reach you. Sometimes I'd find myself
so tangled in your absence that I would stop
along some woodside road
and stumble sobbing into the weeds--
a blind man falling from grief's moving train.
§
In time the dreams stopped. I drove along in traffic. Numbed
by the radio and the procession of grey, beige, and blue cars.
I no longer heard you crying. The woods became just a place
birds live.
§
The other day I saw two boys, twins,
about the age you'd be
now. They sat quietly coloring
in the backseat of their father's car
while he filled the tank.
Your mother still keens for you.
She believes in things I no longer do.
Sky people. Destiny.
Encores.
God.
§
We all have things we carry. Some
we wish we could set down beside the road.
Others are simply ours. We embrace them
the way a sapling grows to embrace the iron
fence that once confined it. The bars
that once caused pain now run through the trunk
and make it stronger. I call mine
you.
_______________________________
Since 1987, Charles O'Hay's work has appeared in over 100 literary publications including The New York Quarterly, Cortland Review, Gargoyle, West Branch, and Mudfish. In 1995, he received a Pennsylvania Council on the Arts fellowship in poetry. His first collection of poems and photographs, “Far from Luck,” was published in 2011 by Lucky Bat Books (Reno, NV) and is available in both print and Kindle formats via Amazon.com.
I used to hear you crying
in the thickets of my dreams as night covered you
with its black cloth. I wrapped my hands and feet,
tore at the bindweed and tramped down the nettles
but could not reach you. Sometimes I'd find myself
so tangled in your absence that I would stop
along some woodside road
and stumble sobbing into the weeds--
a blind man falling from grief's moving train.
§
In time the dreams stopped. I drove along in traffic. Numbed
by the radio and the procession of grey, beige, and blue cars.
I no longer heard you crying. The woods became just a place
birds live.
§
The other day I saw two boys, twins,
about the age you'd be
now. They sat quietly coloring
in the backseat of their father's car
while he filled the tank.
Your mother still keens for you.
She believes in things I no longer do.
Sky people. Destiny.
Encores.
God.
§
We all have things we carry. Some
we wish we could set down beside the road.
Others are simply ours. We embrace them
the way a sapling grows to embrace the iron
fence that once confined it. The bars
that once caused pain now run through the trunk
and make it stronger. I call mine
you.
_______________________________
Since 1987, Charles O'Hay's work has appeared in over 100 literary publications including The New York Quarterly, Cortland Review, Gargoyle, West Branch, and Mudfish. In 1995, he received a Pennsylvania Council on the Arts fellowship in poetry. His first collection of poems and photographs, “Far from Luck,” was published in 2011 by Lucky Bat Books (Reno, NV) and is available in both print and Kindle formats via Amazon.com.
