Chairs move by themselves, and books.
Grandchildren visit, stand new and nameless,
their faces’ puzzles missing pieces.
She’s like a fish in a deep ocean,
its body made of light.
She floats through rooms,
through my eyes,
an old woman bereft of chronicle,
the parable of her life.
And though she’s almost a child
there’s still blood between us;
I passed through her to arrive.
So I protect her from knives, stairs,
from the street that calls as rivers do,
a summons to walk away, to follow.
And dress her,
demonstrate how buttons work,
when she sometimes looks up
and says my name,
the sound arriving like the trill of a bird
so rare it’s rumored no longer to exist.
~ Bob Hicok ~