-for jacob a. hill
by roberta hill whiteman
(from philadelphia flowers)
when i found eraser dust
from “you must do your math”
left on my desk this morning, i thought of how
i love to see your face,
at once so familiar, so foreign.
soon, you will be a man
in a country born from war,
in a country that renews its pride
by making cluster-bombs. but this morning
we are safe on our street and i can watch
your spirit shimmer around you
when you laugh.
at this moment, the joy of antelope twins
who bounded before you on the day
of your birth overtakes you.
you grow bold, curious
to the point of danger,
tramping through jack pines,
setting up camps. your nomadic soul
follows the wind’s way---
whatever arrives, arrives.
yet you never stay out too long
before the coolness of the turtle clan
glides over your shoulders.
then your turtle heart hedges
and you hoard string,
bits of tin, railroad ties,
like gatherers who abided under ancient maples.
you grow so hard on yourself, hibernating,
building robots in your room,
your blood blooming under dreaming seas,
inaccessible to me,
though at times like these
you stand before an open window
like my father.
at such moments, do you ponder
just what phenolphthalein means?
this poem asks the earth
to offer you her care,
to remind you that your grandfathers
lived here for five thousand years.
they followed the loon,
so it may also guide
your running through the humming night.
at distances greater than your twelve years,
through the silhouettes
of starker fears, may these blessings
find you still
wonderously alive
in this world that prizes
annihilation.
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