Poetry Thursday: Song of Myself

For this week's Poetry Thursday assignment, participants are asked to write a poem from the voice of the "authentic" self. That's a tough fellow for me to unveil. Maybe I've written too many poems, taken on too many voices, given over myself to too many aesthetic tasks, that I end up thinking about what the poem itself necessitates in terms of a voice.

On the other hand, there are times when I do try to be truthful with a voice that feels like my own, and not surprisingly, those times occur when the subject matter is more personal. Since I have been sharing poems from my first and third book, I thought I would go to my second book, nearly Florida, for an example.



Traces

My child, in his room, is playing,
and I cannot tell whether he
is laughing or crying, but I will
not stir from my reading, for his joy,

as I imagine, over the leaves
of sycamore we found is his own,
and if his noise is the child’s
grief, that, too, is his own. To be

truthful, I am afraid that I can
no longer restore comfort out of pain.
Still, I know I will seek in the broad
ways whom my soul loves, and I

retrieve one trick I learned young,
so that I do rise and go. I mix
sugar milk and take paper and matches
into his room. Here, I tell him,

I have something to show you. With
the liquid, he traces circles
with his finger upon the paper, and I
lay my hand over his hand, to feel

the movement of what he has in mind.
The circles, I think, become smoother,
rounder, smaller. I say, Okay,
let’s let the paper dry, and

I return to my reading, and he
to his quieter play. And it is fear
again: how a father dreams of
the drowning child he can never save,

the child’s face disappearing
in a swallow of silt, how a father
plays with combustible materials
and their traces — fire and ash — that

will leave nothing but the child’s
tiny bones. It is fear because I know
my son will come to me, asking
if it is ready, and I will have

to say yes. I will light the match
beneath the paper, and from nothing
will appear maybe something like a face,
something like my own face,

fevered, blistered, blackening faster
than the paper, or the design becomes
my child’s face in a cry or a laugh,
calling out someone else’s name.