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3. An array of maps

by Bob Arcania

There was a haze of fireworks
in his hair, the way it disheveled
on the pillow, a celebration of independence

bleeding into the morning, lingering
in the deep blue of early summer.

An array of maps behind his eyes

when he woke, stretching into the next room,
ink blots under his fingernails,
the lift of his arm like the curve of Africa,
the rigidity of his left leg like the Panama Canal.

You are his sister and you say he is a mess of brambles,
a reed-filled ditch. He ignites every few years.
Somewhere the forest shutters, expelling
two white cranes, a doe,
a family of foxes, emaciated.

He stirred the sugar deep


Author's Note: Part of a series. See also:
1. Abigail, it is raining.
2. a real fine parade, your sister and I
4. Vocalizing the Red Fox Siblings
5. correspondence

Posted on 05/13/2008
Copyright © 2024 Bob Arcania

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Dane Campbell on 10/15/08 at 01:50 AM


Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 10/06/14 at 12:56 PM

congratulations on POTD. you have composed a most splendid array of words and images.

Posted by Kristina Woodhill on 09/08/15 at 02:35 AM

My favorite of this series.

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