Grab the grackle’s wet
wing festering in the lemon
twilight. I’ll dip this lit
finger in the flood & finally
sign the court document. In our
shrinking backyard stands
the falling swing-set
where we held A.A. meetings.
I stole the word, our record.
Slid the secret note saying what
I heard in the rusted weft
of the oval tube. We stood
in a circle—a wheel inside
of the air, like the wheel that took
the prophet Ezekiel—discussing
night crimes. Condemned sliver,
gnarled knuckle. Let go finally of
everything you clutched & tried
to drag to the bottom of the sea.
Looking low with slit eye sockets
I see little white Christmas lights
strung around your head shine
like phosphorous in the night
Copyright © Charles Kell 2017
Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and editor of The Ocean State Review. He teaches in Rhode Island and Connecticut.