The father makes coffee, weary and quiet,
as the child tries to imitate his grief.

The sun isn’t up, but it matters little:
light and dark do what they will to them.

The child takes a large breath and says,
Last night I had a bad dream:

There were lions. It was terrible. The father
touches the child’s head and says,

There will always be lions. This is how
each day begins, but once the father says,

Last night I had a magnificent dream:
Your mother was alive and gardening in her

wedding dress. She waved to us. I can’t explain
the significance of that gesture. You and I were

gathering rosewood. It was so fragrant.
Smell your fingers. The child does so.

Do you smell it? It’s from another time.
The child asks, What’s a gesture?

It can be almost anything, the father says and
swigs his coffee. It can be worthless, most are, or

it can restitch the tapestry, which is what
your mother tried to do. Did she? asks the child.

No, says the father. No. Eat, we are almost
out of time. Child and father swig coffee.

 

 

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Christopher Nelson is the author of Blood Aria (Wisconsin) and five chapbooks. The recipient of the 2023–24 Amy Lowell Traveling Scholarship, he is the founding editor of Green Linden Press. www.christophernelson.info

 

 

 

Image: Blake Cheek for Unsplash+