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Iowa (a hawk returns)

February 14, 2016

 

                                                The road to Iowa is paved with expectations,

                                                two hundred miles long - among them littered

                                                the adhesive strips of memories, along where

                                                one slips the tongue upon the slit, fusing

                                                bitter winter and paper-thin wafer without

                                                             a cut…

 

                                                But the distance you give makes the villagers

                                                double-take.  They always thought you alive,

                                                seated in the same spot, sputtering sage leaves

                                                while you remained rooted in a computer, one

                                                hard drive like a tombstone etching birth, death,

                                                            one more…

 

                                               One more, the sages echo; one more sentence of

                                               the man you once were.  And now you are the

                                               phantom, spinning on some hipster Coruscant,

                                               assumed forgotten, now a spit-take on the floor

                                               made flesh in the whip-flash, flaunting as you say,

                                                           “I’m here…!”

 

                                               You’re here, and feeling not here, not there, not

                                               a tree weathering anywhere, wint’ring in reverse,

                                               to over-winded welcomes and melting into warm

                                               minestrones of dreams, screaming into ice cream

                                               bowls, wishing your return a sunshine, becoming of

                                                           a hawk…

   

                                               But you caw away, guffaw in a lobby where you

                                               once roosted, singing half-hymns of springtime,

                                               proud of the townsfolk, stranger to yourself.

                                              ‘Til then, you nestle in a slowly dying hearth,

                                              chirping one-days to stay forever-long, one-day…

                                                         one day.

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Ryan Oliveira

Ideas.  I'm full of them.

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