Elegy

A lone feather in the wind

Becomes

Like the last condor in a sky;

It becomes the soft flutter

And cry and echo

Of the shadow sky empire

Of condors now past—

The skies were once so full

Of distant majesty, of promise

But promise now somehow

—broken—

As though God himself gave up and

Took all his condors back,

Went home.

This was supposed to be

My elegy for you.

This was supposed to be

About you, and us.

The future was supposed to be

About you, and an elegy for me

Written by your son.

The future was supposed

To mourn the forgetting of me.

This is supposed to be an elegy about me,

Written by your son, ten or twenty

Years from now.

This was supposed to be the poem

I would never write,

Lord, I am not worthy—

Poems like feathers

Collected from the beach sands

(and if you didn’t stitch the feathers

And left your son only wax, then

—I am sorry—

—I am sorry—

—I am—)

This wasn’t supposed to have to be

My elegy for you.