HOODWINKER
No wife, no mother, so I hoodwinked my son,
a damaged kid. I wore grayish talons and
the penalties have grown stiff—no balms and
only wisps of grassiness sewn into dreams.
Woo Woo sings Joni, thin and high. Drifts
curve behind the boat-house and one cedar
hangs like a falling axe over the snow. I took
him up, led him on, and left him in a white
metal crib. But there was no thicket, no ram,
so I was the trickster. Was it my voice? Was
there no chapel for prayer? The seasons go
round and round and O, it weights me—
I led the way. May I investigate miraculous
repentances? May I forgive myself?
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