Like a Brick Upon Everything
by Kenneth Godoy
perhaps in the wither of the mother’s hand
now that she had taken cancer again,
or the silent scream of three birds in Beacon’s alley,
in the window receiving sun after sun without trepidation,
perhaps in the color of water, in the strength
of the dying night, perhaps in the swinging
wings of the wind hard like a brick upon everything,
or in this black, unending river,
perhaps in the tiny, green leaves, the weeds
that grow sharp and hidden with pain or in the soft spears
of flowers that only grow and die, perhaps in the piercing weight
of the sky, in the shape of thing of everything,
and in this untouchable body of you, perhaps in your giving
spirit that smiles again to the warmth of midday that
I find strength to live again because nothing makes
sense and so everything does and can.
Then perhaps in the silent name of god,
in a single, eternal syllable, in the thought
of forgiveness comes a yearning I am meant
to question and know yet never understand.
Kenneth Godoy is a poet and photographer.
Photography by Kenneth Godoy