The Lord is my Arctic, my tube nosed bird. He hoppeth over the surface of waters, my Jesus bird who doth follow my ship. He broods over cliff's edge, ponderous over all of the penguins balancing their eggs on their feet. The Lord is my giant frigate bird. I am his limpet, krill, and his plankton. He is the blue and the ever in waking, blue in the wake.
It is 1974 and out the institutional open windows of the college dorm, nylon bikinis in floral prints are plummeting like the cheap bodies of birds. And then your mother's large white briefs like a mainsail, like a flag of surrender, begin a slow dancing down current, cinematic, lithe. All of the faces are turning up, hushed, like those holding a hoop to save a child burning. It is the opposite of being lifted into the sky the way I imagined my grandfather ascending after the long pain of illness: this large pair of underpants falling forever on the startled face of an undergraduate boy.
For Paula Snow