There is a Light that Never Goes Out

   Red leaves crackling
            beneath our bare feet,
       mother & I follow
   a peacock through an orchard,
black markings etched on its narrow back
            like the claw prints
of swallows in mud. Mother’s floral dress
       troubled by a breeze—
              as the dress billows
the larkspur buds blossom,
release their scent, crushed fennel seeds…
   A twig snaps.
The peacock unfurls its enormous tail
   against a stack of fruit crates
            & once again
   I’m a boy of eight peering
through his mother’s bedroom window:
an oval mirror,
   like a peacock feather, echoes
            her powdered eyes
                     as she sits naked,
combing her long hair in the minutes
            before dusk
   when the dullest objects,
say a hairbrush, gather enough light to shine.

wn Un