Ekphrastifilia
Your little elbow
nudges the air
as the raindrops
line up and wait
to fall. I forget
who I was before
our windows floated
away revealing
our drawn-over
selves. Your shadow
kites above us
and whatever we say
forever hovers.
A tornado touches
gently down, black
lightning ignites
a butterfly’s skull.
Your fingers grip
the triggers of long
stemmed flowers
beneath the sky’s
television of rain
broadcasting two
smiling clouds.
Are they us? I ask.
They’re just clouds,
you say, then cut
yourself out.
Copyright © 2019 by Matt Rasmussen. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 13, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets
“I began this poem for an event in Minneapolis organized by Chris Martin called Rad Dads, where dads read poems about their kids. The poem has changed a bit since then, but it’s still based on this obsession to interpret my daughter’s drawings. While writing it I examined about a hundred of her artworks from the ages of two to five.”
—Matt Rasmussen
Matt Rasmussen
His poetry collection, Black Aperture, was selected by Jane Hirshfield as the winner of the 2012 Walt Whitman Award from the Academy of American Poets