Deep inside the planet that is my father, moons
shattered, stars disintegrated, novas bloomed in
the soft human story like the suns which
broke apart in the glass of the jars under my bed.
We took playground death much more casually
then. There would come a day when I discovered
devotion in my quiet moments, but only epochs
after such casual cruelty found a new sunstruck home
stuffed with a few broken twigs from fields
of dusty grass, still there 30 years gone, still hiding
tiny parishioners in their temples. Other
parts of childhood are missing, however, never
to return; we are lulled by the clouds and the sun
and the martyrdoms of the summer, its emerald sacrifice.
Their triangle heads tilt as if asking
a question, their bladed arms arm themselves,
but their cloudy milk-green eyes show
nothing as my hands close around them
until their bodies dry to parchment,
and then to dust.
You can see Russell Brickey's poems online at Earthshine, Mannequin Envy, and Roadrunner, as well as a number of print journals, and forthcoming from Packingtown Review, Thick With Conviction, The Poet's Art, and Miller's Pond.
take me home