Le Mouton Noir/ September 21, 2010

My father does not listen,

He passes and passes,

Swearing places look familiar,

I cannot throw him keys from the balcony,

His circles are useless they make me dizzy,

I would send him pigeons, a telegram

I have arrived it would read.

But his doubts always hang,

Prey in the jaws of a lion.

My mother does not cry,

There is a river in her heart, four faucets

Each at it’s own pace pouring and pouring

She has patience for them all

But no space, slowly her ankles disappear

She is drowning because she opened gates.

In her house, there is a light that invites,

Jealousy from the Mediterranean,

Silenced they watch her kindness,

Unable to apologize.

My sister does not sleep,

She worries and worries,

About the children with no shoes,

The neighbor’s car and newly painted walls,

She keeps lists and markers in her purse,

She knows better than to curse, or follow fires

Her sole desire is to fall into a crevice

Forgiving as her childhood, but with fewer flowers.

Le Mouton Noir grazes in the shade,

The grass he prefers is really tobacco,

Numbing his limbs and knotting his fleece,

He wanders and wanders,

Not belonging to a Sheppard or flock,

Onlookers believe him to be lost,

Mad with independence,

He passes over the pasture

A blemished cloud absent of logic,

But never forgotten.

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