My Father Built
by Jessica Shapiro
I raised my own heart’s curtain:
the half-filled masks made of wax
Floodlights emitted through bottle tops:
sighs change to signals change to chimes turn to the same sign again
"It is a calling bird, not a tragedy," he says
"A revelry of sympathy and expectation."
A document of departing jugglers and harlequins:
embossing and carving and lowering the scrims
garlands and pillars that appear above your restless glance
and of pearls that emerge as finely spun veils
. . .
You were rooted into the ground on one end,
tied, curved and unfurled on the other
marrow made from hazel trees
ears pieced together from the abundance of magpies
eyes that poured from residual boundaries
The first act portrays dissimilar accounts:
A gentle and light-hearted version
one to tell the children
one meant to be statistics and
one that allowed you a satisfying exit
Your second act presents a well know garden:
a sailor, swaying a little, gives way to rocky cliffs
he splitting the rocks in two
joins the mollusk shells on the ocean floor
A third act remains a mystery.
Remaining afterwards a series of monuments upon the balcony:
words in blue-blooded majesty
aqueous characters of medieval illuminated
narratives of flaking silver
A misty red eye sits on the piano in the pit
contorted costumes unravel in the emerald room
from simple seams emerge puppets tying their own strings
. . .