Monsignor, a machine
Had painted on the eyes of my toy soldier,
Little dots off-center,
Almost on his cheeks. Such a cheap toy,
I drowned him over and over in my bath,
Drowned him until the painted-on eyes flaked off.
Then a leg fell off-surge of dirty water
Sunk him to the bottom.
I now at this age place hands on the windowsill,
My eyes nearly on my cheeks,
My belly with its rising tide.
There is no angel with an orange at the edge
Of my bed. There is no soldier
Of God. Only a pane between the inside
And the outside, between this living
And this dying. Monsignor,
Saintly man of this child's wonderment,
When will I see the geese again?