What if complete sentences came at you
meeting questions from a child you knew
not to ask; and all the years between
paraded past like a patient ancient scheme.
What if sharp and sudden as a blow
came I am he of whom you heard, with
a staggering kiss; and it is so, he breathed
every time you tugged his hand to know;
who slowed, when asked, the very wind outside;
and filled and drained a darkened room with light
of curious color, answering Yes to your
Do you want more of me. Who took all power
out of settled old authorities.
If you fell in love, for life, with people you
despised until today. If what a cat knew
for a stranger’s loving touch came signed, that was me.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 23, Issue 6.
John Vigren is a landscape photographer and recovering addict. He has been a machinist, road repair laborer, gardener, factory worker, practicing attorney, radio news correspondent, and church deacon. He lives in New Jersey.
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