Michael Dickman

Good Friday

I think the light
Appearing, then
Disappearing, across
The trunk of the Live-
Oak is the boss
Of everything.
Not You.
Not Your hands tearing up the grass in the neighbors yard, fashioning
Little green crosses
No one can fit on.
But we can put them to our lips!
And whistle.




I don’t see You everywhere.
All night, and
I have all night.
Fire ants walking to the edge of a blade of grass in the moonlight.
We’ll want to keep our mouths
Away from that one.
A parade
All night, and I have
All night.
Cords of wood stacked all over the neighborhood without burning.
Snakes asleep between the kindling.
Return, don’t




The dogs are barking at something
That never arrives at my house.
Why is that?
If You came back
And it happened again
We would shave Your head
And attach black wires
To Your Solar System.
You would see
Your mother
Your childhood
And small pockets
Of darkness behind
Your eyes Turn
To lightening.
Someone would wipe you clean with a towel, someone would put You
In the ground.

Michael Dickman
Poem, copyright © 2005 by Michael Dickman
Appearing on From the Fishouse with permission
Audio file, copyright © 2005, From the Fishouse