By Andy Riverbed
This morning I turned to the alarm and it was 7 AM.
I shut my eyes and saw you as a butterfly floating over
Tennessee Williams’ field of blue-petaled children.
I gave up on sleep and decided to run after you.
In the field I carved your name in-between those blue petals.
The children, I stepped on, but they didn’t care because
they were children and happy. They were still innocent.
Your name was seen from above
just as I had seen the name of the girl
the French boy in the Le Grand Voyage
had carved in the sand
as he waited for his father to make his pilgrimage,
because all he could do was think of her.
By the end of the movie his father had died and the boy
crouched into a fetal-position next to his father’s corpse.
The boy cried because he knew he’d never speak to his father again.
He then knew that he had wasted all his time available with his father.
I cried in that field because I felt the same.
The blue-children surrounded me and began to console me.
They climbed on each other and raised me above them.
From above, as a prisoner of this tower
formed of blue-petaled children,
I could still see your name
and things were okay.