Tributaries
Christopher Moya
Life meant "moo-cow" in the sun,
and when I was young-- let's say, five or six--
Elysium was every field I could run through
and kicking balls beneath tires
'til they stuck in the tread.
It was that wagon with the woord boards.
I can still see the old swivel-handled jalopy
and a good goldfish swimming
Through plastic seaweed or a mock ship's hull.
My silly art crowds the refrigerator door
as I crouch over slugs out back.
I can see the dung peppered in the yard,
where I squint and grin
to dodge a lapping tongue.
I like to hide in bushes and stamp my feet in puddles
while the bees wiggle their bellies
on the stamen's cache of pollen.
I'm fond of bonny minx,
a carousel tune in a checkered dress
who always wears a milk moustache,
the other half of a seesaw.
we chase lizardds, and make mudpies,
and bang our heads on the handball court like idiots.
I love the smell of a freshly jumbled house,
where the toys rattle and din.
I love my pillow's ditty sung to my head.
Leaning down, Father's face is rich ad dark.
His hands run through my hair. Mother kisses my forehead.
I slept soundly--
but that was long ago.
the slide spiral and swing inertia
fed my heart's flourishing ffugue
behind my closed eyes which now are open
and came to bloom with tears.
It was grief that made me old, not years.
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