KATE FOLEY

My Father, Counting Sheep
 

He has been awake
for long enough, counting.
His life is thick, painful
seconds, squeezed from the glass.

Stretching his eyes behind
the sharp sun's lance
he waits
for the terrible medicine of dark.

He has his mother's eyes.
Often she rapped his head
with bony knuckles,
her fierce hazel glint
searching out sin like truffles.

She never cured him of looking;
silk in the rag bag,
silver in clouds.

Now, his rib cage winnowed
with scorching breath,
his big glove puppet hands
tell their own story
to the sheets.

Somewhere in the dry
fields of his brain
he is driving his last
ragged thoughts relentlessly,

over and over,
past the same gate,
counting to keep awake.
What gives him quiet?
Not me with my bolus
of love and drugs.
My mother, her voice

shrill with familiar strain,
whispers angrily tender,
"let GO!" He sighs.
His flocks line up soberly.

All the mild sheep
are folded through his eyes.

Anamaria Comes

Kate Foley

Tata numarand oile

Era treaz
de ceva vreme, numarand.
Viata-i aidoma secundelor
Ce greu, chinuitor
se scurg.

Cautand cu privirea
Dincolo de sagetile soarelui
Asteapta cumplitul leac al intunericului.

A mostenit ochii maica-sii,
Care cu degetele-i noduroase,
Ii mai tragea cate-o scatoalca
In vreme ce
cu ochi scanteietori
scormonea s-afle pacatul
ca dupa trufe.

N-a reusit cautatura sa i-o schimbe;
Matase intr-un sac de carpe,
Argint in cer.

Coastele-i tresalta
Cu fiecare suflu fierbinte,
Mainile-i mari de papusar
Isi spun acum povestea
asternutului.

Undeva, in colturile
indepartate ale mintii,
insira neincetat ultimele
ramasite de ganduri

iar si iar,
pe langa aceeasi poarta,
numarand ca sa stea treaz.

Ce-l linisteste oare?
Sigur nu doza mea de
Leacuri si iubire.

In glasul mamei razbate incordarea,
“Da-i drumul!”
Sopteste suparata.

El ofteaza.
Turmele se-nsira in tacere.

Iar ochii lui le-nvaluie blajin.