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Wild Horses |
for James Daniel McSweeney 1945-1988
Remembrance is a photograph.
Uncle Jimmy faded to almost sepia,
wearing a top hat in Ireland;
behind him, a distant clovered canvas.
I imagined wild horses.
Traveling to find answers, something that made sense,
hoping to know more about Grace,
my grandmother, who had been adopted
as a young child. This mystery remains.
October 1988, Los Angeles Sheriff's Department
came pounding on our front door in the middle of the night.
I was eight years old when he transcended to stars.
"Helicopter Explodes Near San Diego"
Who knew bullets would fail to penetrate
the Kevlar twice, or that his feet
would never again touch the bright green of Ireland,
forever haunting the damp pubs and castles for a surname?
I heard Taps and bagpipes play on that hot summer day.
The heat seemed almost vulgar, prematurely drying our tears
before they hit the ground. An American flag folded somber,
framed in wooden, triangular repose.
Remembrance is not a flag waving "God bless America',
remembrance is a photograph. Wild island equine
running the lush, green clovered canvas of Ireland,
tattooed into eternal heart chambers.
I imagined wild horses.
copyright 2016
Apryl
Skies |
