Marcel in Limbo
Father has slapped Marcel into limbo
and I am left with his scattered footfalls,
hyperactive, running into my room, wordless
eyes wide -

he's not a dog,
says mother,

I know,
he yells -

Marcel in limbo
is lavish, concentric
otherworldly
devotional, as pitiful
as the stillborn
birth, or comical
as a whipped slave laughing
about it with his antediluvian
master over cocktails
at high tea,

though
noon was always
our hour, always
the moments when
water falls from our
chins
like our mouths were
gutters, and our faces
the sky.

Did you take him?
mother says, he got beat -

father thinks he is not in danger,
yet I know better, know in the pit
of the soul, as in the soles of my
feet that tread the tidy threadbare
carpets of the house haunted
with past family wars, and the broken
banister having always crept into
my mind, and the least impromptu of
times, yet

Marcel
is bemused; naked
as those newborns long
sense well versed in the
world already spectacularly
tainted, and in the evening
I brush the knots from his hair,
filling the world with louder
howls to frighten the other
beaten children in the cul-de-sac
otherwise moon-starved and shrived,
and translucent, and virginal to their
fathers powerful hands -

I know better
than these things,

knowing all of the corners
of the house, and where to
go to spread the symphony
of my silence; keeping Marcel
deep inside him transcendence;

and father
well out of reach
despite his presence.