A History

The stars are not damned
I left her at the airport
The stars are not real
I left her at the train station
The blood in my head runs
Through the history of my father’s army
To the stone in a dream of cathedrals
I left her at the ferry
For half a century
She called last night
She had seen my mother dancing
As a young girl
While Japan burned
The taste of blood comes back
A kiss for a sobbing child
The rock of this world
Is all the shapes of our pain
And the old swings I painted green
Now stained in the air
Blown through the flutes of the Orient
Where ever you are
Drink two whiskeys for us
Then walk the Guggenheim
Slowly up and down
Let your eyes close halfway
On the train home
A storm darkening history
And writing our names.

George Eklund