The Juncture

Deeply moored
beneath a carpet of clay,
some gravel, decaying humus,
and a warren of refuse--
a limestone cave swells
in a small cavity
of dripping
bedrock.
 
This place is quiet and drowsy.
Soft floor is warm to the skin.
My father left his skull down here
because he thought
it was a good enough place,
a warm enough place, to survive.
 
I too, find myself reassured
by the thickness of the air
that has filled my head and tapped my blood.
Like the soft and steady deposition
of wet calcium.
 
Many sunken layers above
the sun dogs your steps,
hardens your wrinkles,
and bleaches your eyes.
I cannot blame my father for his choice,
for I may yet choose the same.
 
But I would like . . .
I would like
to see the stars someday--
awash across a windy desert.
And a cactus flower in bloom.


2017