I reach for him.
My hand extends,
touches a blank wall.
Shadows streak across it
like puppets striking each other
with kitchen implements.
I glimpse a spinal column
in the shallow end of the pond.
I reach again, not to save, but to touch.
We are two opposing waters,
waves in between.
I remember him as a troubadour,
but I no longer hear his music.
I have reached the day’s midsection,
a day once swollen with possibilities,
now an unwanted conception.
It is dark in the shadows.
Otherwise, the sun beats the dust with sticks.
My mother, Our Lady of Perpetual Disappointment,
walks into the backyard without invitation.
One comes without welcome,
the other, reached for,
never shows up.