Counterparts

STBPHEN DOBYNS

COUNTERPARTS

There is no sky today. Echoes of birds

worry their way northward. They must have

everything repeated many times. You are here

and elsewhere, your face breeding like fear.

It is not for nothing that I keep my hands

raised for the fall. This is a country of smaller wars.

You have your office and ranch house, your foreign car

and family. You are still not necessary. I see

your face in a photograph from the war, surrounded

by soldiers convinced by their smiles. Later

there will be that look of faint surprise

as you meet the world and lie down to be counted.

The colors of blood are legion. Of necessity

your name must be also. Choose any direction

and it will lead to the heart. We call it a diamond.

Placed on the ground, we heap stones around it,

logs over it. What loss to a two car family?

We bring flowers. In error, people will call it a funeral.

Days pass, fires to be tended-their flames

like small fingers looking for your eyes. You have

already torn them from you. All things desire

to be surrounded by stone. There is rain on my hands.

There is the steady thud of birds falling into hills

sloping with sheep. We memorize the art of decay.

A swift and pervading grey slips through my fingers,

cloud covered and accustomed to war. A bone

is my weapon. It may not have been mine. Each end

is sharpened and carefully aimed. The ground

and pine boughs hiss a warning. There are rumours

of summer. There are seasons no longer acceptable.