A Slow Indwelling

for M

All day a dormant violin
in my daddy’s black briefcase.

All day a penny whistle
pinched in my daughter’s fingers

like a balsam cigar.
She blows,

and thirty sparrows
shot mid-flight

scatter like paper.

*

My son has moved away
from this poem.

He’s believed himself
a cat all week

and would rather curl
in quietude

than befriend these lines
who know no boundary, hatchets

bloody with afterbirth.

* 

My neighbor lets
a single balloon go

from his grip
and weeps for fear

the storm will swallow it,
his late son lost in the war.

What does one do
but whisper I’m sorry,

send a card of condolence
a basket of pears? 

*

All year I tend my
two crepe myrtles:

clip away branches,
feed their roots.

By fall their blossoms
crack from fists,

ricochet bees
in their business.

I’ve read it could
be cell phones

confusing the hives
that cause them

all to scatter alone,
in search

for someplace safe.
But others insist

its incessant need,
a slow indwelling,

a rage. A night sky
loudening yellow.

Luke Johnson’s poems can be found at Kenyon Review, Narrative Magazine, Florida Review, Frontier, Cortland Review, Nimrod, Thrush and elsewhere. His manuscript in progress was recently named a finalist for the Jake Adam York Prize, The Levis through Four Way Press, The Vassar Miller Award and is forthcoming fall 2023 from Texas Review Press. You can find more of his poetry at lukethepoet.com or connect at Twitter at @Lukesrant.