Lost Prodigal

By Reuben Canoy

Sleep well, my little one, sleep well
And after you have paid respect to God
Perhaps you’ll touch my face with your quick hands
That I may know they’re warm again and strong

To build those mountains of the moon where
Once you boasted you could battle giants
On your birthday if I’d only buy a knife
With double blades. Was it the second of

July? I don’t remember. There are things
I can’t remember now. I’m old and tired.
But tell me how it is up there: the sun so near
That you can play with all the fire you want

Although the box of matches isn’t where
Your curious arms can reach. (I’ve taken care,
However, to display it on the kitchen table
Just in case you’ll wish to set a bill aflame.)

And birds! You know, I’ve often wondered what
Became of tamsis you would murder on the way;
And is it true that wings of butterflies crushed
On an afternoon are fragrant flowers there?

You’re happy, I am sure; why else would you
Renounce this neighborhood? Or, come to think,
Was it because you didn’t like the way I said:
No, that’s enough! — that you have quietly gone?

I’m sorry then. And should I find you tugging
At my skirt again, the way you used to, I would
Sweep you up and cry: See, little one, the moon’s
Upon your mountains! And be still: you’ll wake

The giant-lovers sleeping where the forest
Ferns grow tall! Come we must lie together for
We’re lovers, too — perhaps more so. But you
Would never listen then because pink lollipops

On purple sticks and broken bits of windowglass
Are spider-woven in your dream, and mangy mongrels
Stalking restlessly within your narrow heart
Would snarl at me, would snap at me!