by Kathleen Kraft
In Memory of My Father
A bird soars through a narrow doorway and through
other doorless rooms.
Soon the walls disappear and still she goes,
I outline across skies and fields. Rooms that come together
and apart among continuous fields.
A rush of wings behind me, I am still here, drawing in my mind.
Waiting, eyes darting, she takes off from my childhood window:
Small room, violet-flowered wallpaper, baby’s night prayer
framed on the wall.
She swoops down, then rises, weaving among the buildings
until I cannot see her anymore.
And so I go, following her into an old dream where I sprung
among the rooftops of our neighborhood
and back again to the high corners of empty rooms, where I hung
in the air and judged the distances with joy.