No. 3

Fall 2002

It's tonight after my class
and none of my oceans are tearing
their white hands. The concrete and grass
turn into water, and you and I are floating
in a shotgun shell that emptied its powder
into the night. The oak and apple trees on
the hill behind us shake loose their camouflage
and slip their roots from underground to dry
and follow. I start climbing out of the body,
climbing towards heaven over piled alphabets
my angels are sledging into spark in some
foundry in the tin dark; climbing over rose
bushes, river water, and handlebars, until
there's only one ladder left balancing one leg
on either side of a roof peak and tottering,
jutting its bone into the stars. I climb
until there's only one monkey bar left
on a ladder for me to pendulum my legs
under; then higher still, latching one fist
then another around stray leaves and
chimney ashes gusting up. I can't drop
my hands into your earth, can't crush one
brick before you, to say there's light raining
in all matter, can't say I know the way by
leaps and bounds towards a happiness that's
simple and bread rising. Kick the ladder down
when you reach the highest rung and lunge
up after me brother. I'm leaving angel feathers
there that will set you swinging from feather
to fiery stone, will bear you off
into your great unknown

Copyright 2002, John Rybicki

nidus is an online publication supported by the Writing Program at the University of Pittsburgh's English Department.