Goodnight, Traveler

i is no one else, darling boy.

you staggered down to hell,

stole the devil’s gossamer,

came back and spun it

into the language of black doves.

you were right to traffic in words

before arms. bullets are mute,

cheap beasts until spiraled

in the pomegranate flesh

of cobblestone streets,

sun-burnt orchards.

you, rebel poet, damned nothing.

i was pregnant at your birth.

pass the puddle water in a gourd

fashioned by silkworms.

i turned to you

when i glanced the stump

of a young pine

and wondered what last phrase

swam through the grate

of your visionary soul.