Issa Quincy

I am here in the evening light,
my eyes now white like the museum sparrow,
with a voice that no longer trembles: Remember the child.
I’ll visit as a songbird, a rabbit,
and lead you up the dash with the wind.
I waited for your permission, faceless,
and you gave it.
It was a terminal we both knew:
the open woods, a last request, an imposition,
the letter E.
The leaves narrowed the highway
and were full of water. You said so.
That is life:
the gray flattering the green.

If I try to remember
it’s the sun I see
Wet rope hung on painted clouds
Silent summer warmth in Child’s garden
I fell from the tree of winterberries
Mother is at the races tonight
Old girl shouts at the dirt
The house light glows through evening
Lying, I watch—
a cracked helmet tugs at my chin
a fallen trunk by the tinkling pond
I think of a black milk
as the night sinks