by Peter Grandbois
If only I could lose the small in me
The way birds remember sky in wind’s embrace,
Or a ship’s oars stretch as the sea veil lifts,
The whale’s shadow deepening the wine-dark,
Or the way I soared over the trees
Having hit the jump on my sled just right.
My twelve-year-old friends below diminished
As my body song extended in flight,
Head tilted back, arms outspread, rowing toward
The murmur of mouth spilled open to madness,
Or something like it, assuming nothing
But the sweep, the soft-stroked weep of being,
Peter Grandbois is the author of eight previous books, the most recent of which is This House That (Brighthorse Books, 2017). His poems, stories, and essays have appeared in over one hundred journals. He is a senior editor at Boulevard magazine and teaches at Denison University in Ohio. You can find him at petergrandbois.com.