For Peter

For Peter

engulfed in the shimmering hiss and bray
of nationalism and someone else’s weed
I feel my missing for you settle in the way;
I fear for all the things we’ve yet to say.
and the backandforthbackandforth kind of speed
of my too-small swing creaking with rainwater and need
is sickening, like mangoes too long in the sun and day
(mangoes are backward, ‘cause mold grows from the seed)

but under the glow of ancient hist’ry and greed
I can see your vivid-angled-absent face
in the sky—raked with firedust and gray
in the stripes of our country, by which we were “freed”
and I can feel you as man-made stars filter into space
like Faeriefolk, the rockets fade—without a trace.

To my Faerieboy,

Happy Fourth, from back home.

Love,
Wendy Darling