The Random Application of a Law
The refugees had settled near San Antonio,
near the Alamo’s scent of lavender.
Their memories had a kind of jet lag,
with holes in the soles of their shoes near
the staggering river. Spring was scrawling
its poem in the air and on the street.
The apartment was where one boy created
a spider web out of kite string, another
tasted lead paint like honeyed freedom.
The apartment complex was part coyote,
with bones in the foundation and some walls.
Time, with a stubborn eye, pressed their
labors in a book; a beauty too ferocious
for the grieving parents. Nothing is more
direct than silence but the rosiness of
struggle, which is rosin for a hungry ear.
Jake Sheff
Tags:
Poetry