Villenueve

I saw you out walking on the street today, past the bank and market where you stopped to buy pears and honey and a loaf of olive bread. Your dress was a yellow print - daffodils and you wore a scarf that nestled on your shoulder, a soft pleiades. Morning steamed off the street - nebulae of sounds - the world waking up as you laughed, the breeze cupping your chin in an embrace of thieves. People turned and smiled at the sound of you living at the sound of everything slung across your shoulder like hope.

I never sang for my father - a brawny man of fish and deer and thick pelts of cigar smoke and whiskey. My anthem was different - a voice of green moss and violet underbellies of claret and pale balsa angels I never sang for my father - no tune stinging between my fingers, or notes like clattering teeth only the long divide of music moving strangely.