A Lack of Space

By Theodore Sovinski 

Everyone’s far too close, and

I can feel my family’s gaze like

giants that leer down at me through

mountains.

A picture pinned against a felt wall,

the once-stirred pages of a book, and

crumpled coke cans lying astray

made me

suffer.

Sitting thirty-seven floors above and

we all have the same definition of luxury.

Opal eyes peel from the night sky

to patter pitilessly down the sky-steps.

Splash in cold water, son.

Wear baggy t-shirts and shorts into the frigid

Atlantic Ocean, son.

Repeat my small, iridescent memories,

son.

Play like a cool organ and

I will walk on water and string

myself up on a crucifix,

          Son.     

I’m busy always:

listening and gasping and “Oh yes I do know that.”

My eye-tooth cries and my

claustrophobia closes in like a glacier.

With torch in hand and strands of the band

slipping away I will break

through this ragged, wracked cage

and you will know they were Christians

by my love.